


The Coventium

by Monetarily Dizzy (SandOfTheMountain)



Series: Here and Then [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: American Southern, Androgyny, Coventium, Dancing, Doing my best!!!, Familiars, Family, Family Drama, Fantasy, Gen, Homecoming, I still don't know how tags work, Magic, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Passive-aggression, Past Abuse, Returning Home, Stream of Consciousness, Witches, church, this is more of the "family" one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2018-11-28 19:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 43,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11424801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandOfTheMountain/pseuds/Monetarily%20Dizzy
Summary: Witch Dappled Zenthella Sandoute and her familiar walked into a burning building. They were not expecting the child. Or the incoming war with another magical community. Or the tensions among themselves. But here they are, a witch, a familiar, and a witchling as the world seemingly falls apart around them. But really, how hard can a modern, magical life be?





	1. You and Me and a Burning Building

     “Hot damn. Literally.” Figaro was not happy. The building Figaro was in was on fire, and he did not particularly like fire. Fire hurt, and fire destroyed. Beyond anything though, fire was just annoying. “Zenthella, you need to figure out our plan. Better yet, we needed a plan like four minutes ago. The building isn’t going to last much longer, and when the building goes down so does the rune.”

     “Don’t… tell me what I already know.” The witch rolled her shoulders, a bead of sweat dripping down her cheek. Zenthella was racking her brain for any useful information; maybe there was some detail from the past month she was missing that could dramatically help. “Actually, do that. Figaro, recap for me?”

     Figaro rolled his eyes, sidestepping a falling support column with inhuman ease. “Four weeks ago, a man was magically ripped inside out in the middle of a Sears. One week ago, we got word from the Coventium that there was some big league magic operating in and around the city. We did some dubiously legal poking around and discovered some really twisted human sacrifice stuff going on in the residential part of town. You bring this to the Coventium, tell them what you know, you get a pat on the back and they send some witches to clean up. All’s fine and good until two days ago, another person gets well acquainted with their intestines. The Coventium’s stumped until someone realizes the energy to kill someone this brutally can’t be harvested from petty human sacrifice like what was happening in the Hallbell Estates. Good ol’ Barley Willix discovers that with a new construction site, someone could connect buildings around the city to make a mediocre chaos rune, with a focum of death and violent instability. Hence the people getting torn asunder, all of whom were inside the circle. We marched like good little magi on our way to this building with some dark juju, and as soon as we were inside the whole thing went up in smoke. Did I mention we’re in the center of the chaos rune? ‘Cause we’re in the center of the chaos rune. And if the building burns up and the rune breaks...” Figaro made a *kaboom* gesture with his hands.

     “Less shit, Fig. I needed a recap, not a dramatization.” Zenthella moved the batons in her hands quickly, glowing sigils flashing dimly where she traced them in the air. “We don’t have a lot of time left. Can you get a fix on where the arsonist is?”

     Figaro frowned and sat down, ignoring the flames all around him. “With all this fire around, there’s too much spastic energy flying around. It’s like static. When you factor in the fact that there are all these witches filling the air by using water magics? There’ll be an ice cream stand in Hell before I can do anything extrasensory.”

     Zenthella nodded, completing her mid air sigils. She gently coaxed energy into the waiting spells, and with a sweep of her wands water burst around her. “We’re containing the fire. That may be the best we can do. You know, we may be able to get more info faster if you were to revert back to your original form…”

     Figaro’s scowl was all the answer Zenthella needed. She knew he’d refuse. Figaro didn’t hate his other form, but he definitely preferred his human body. Zenthella knew she could technically force Figaro into any form, or command him to do nearly anything. That’s the thing about familiars- once they’re bound to you, they’re bound tight. But past experience had taught Zenthella that forcing the familiar to do something he explicitly didn’t want to do was a good way to end up with more problems than you started with.  
“We need to go.” That was Figaro, concern carefully masked in his tone. Zenthella knew he wouldn’t show his worry overtly, but sixteen years with someone will give one remarkable insight into their partner’s thoughts. “Forget the arsonist, we’ve secured our part of the building, and I can feel the fires dying upstairs. I’m exhausted, and there’s no more energy for you to pull here, so let me just open a portal and we’ll go and sleep for a week.”

     Zenthella looked around what maybe once was a hotel lobby, now a drenched charred mess. Sleep would be very, very nice. Zenthella had been wired lately; magical incidents were on the rise recently and the Coventium was working overdrive to police magi. “We can’t leave until Matriarch Quixival or her familiar discharges us. So plop that pale ass of yours down and chill.” Zenthella snorted at the irony of telling Figaro to ‘chill’ in a burning building. The witch sprawled over the ruined counter, her exhaustion making the charred wood feel quite comfortable. Figaro sat below her, subtly placing himself between his master and the door. The two sat in companionable silence, only standing when Quixival and her familiar entered the lobby.

     Figaro and Zenthella bowed their heads, respectfully murmuring greetings to the Coventium’s matriarch. Quixivial didn’t speak, instead she just nodded to her familiar. The familiar, Mavetto, had been created from a peacock by Quixival almost two centuries ago. His shallow demeanor and false sense of importance was tempered only by Quixival’s patience, kindness, and raw power. Despite their contrast the two were perfectly synchronized, making Mavetto the perfect speaker for his master.

     “Witch Dappled Zenthella Sandoute and Familiar Figaro Sandoute, your actions tonight have been commendable.” Mavetto’s accented voice was precise in his dictation, if a little clipped. “The Matriarch would like to make you aware that despite the performance of you and your fellow magi, there was a… complication.” The familiar raised his hand as Barley and Cecily emerged from an elevator, the two gently coaxing a child with them. “The child was on the top floor, trapped within a ward. Someone was using his life energies to fuel the fire to consume the building.” Figaro swore under his breath, earning a raised eyebrow from Quixival. Figaro murmured an apology before looking down, visibly upset. Figaro had seen a lot of things with Zenthella; a child dying to fuel a magic firestorm was a new low.

     “The kid looks like he’s maybe fourteen! Why was he here? Who would use a child like that?” Figaro looked to Zenthella for support, but one look silenced him.

     “What’s the twist?” Zenthella was as concise as she was wary, not seeing why the Coventium America’s leader had bothered to bring her a child. “Do you want me to find the kid’s parents? With respect matriarch, I’ve got other things to do.”

     “Zen.” Barley’s voice was quiet, his face pale. Figaro had known Barley and Cecily his entire life, Zenthella had known Barley even longer. It was disconcerting to see him so concerned. “He’s like us.” Cecilia gently turned the child around and lowered the collar of his shirt, revealing the star on the boy’s neck. Unlike Zenthella, Barley, and every other witch in the Coventium, the five point star wasn’t encircled. Zenthella looked to Barley, then to Figaro. Mavetto simply cleared his throat and tilted his head.


	2. The Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenthella talks with a child, Figaro is shunted to the side.

     The group of witches and familiars stood quietly, appraising the child before them. He didn’t look like much. Shaggy black hair that curled at the ends and dark eyes, the kid barely cleared five foot three. 

     “Holy shit,” Zenthella breathed. “An unclaimed magi. And he’s so old. How hasn’t anyone found him?”

     “Obviously, someone did find him. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been up there fueling that fire.” Mavetto paused, considering his next words. “It would be… disadvantageous to allow the boy to slip away. To begin with, the person who put him in the ward may come back for him. Secondly, and much more obviously, it is dangerous for a magi to go this long unclaimed. Because you are the youngest member of the Coventium, as well as one the more affable,” Figaro snorted and rolled his eyes, obviously amused that anyone could consider Zenthella affable. “Because of your disposition and relative lack of responsibilities,” Mavetto smoothly continued his spiel as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Matriarch Quixival has decided the child will accompany you home and be made your student. He will be claimed by the Coventium America and become a witchling until his training is complete.”

     Zendella blinked slowly, processing what she had been told. She had the money, theoretically. Zenthella had a pretty nice job that could be done from pretty much anywhere, Fig wasn’t at all expensive, and Zenthella knew how to pinch pennies like Ebenezer Scrooge. The problem would be raising and training the kid. Untrained magic children could be volatile due to a lack of control. Teenagers in general could be overly emotional and rash. An untrained teenager was a perfect storm. Zenthella was minorly peeved that the child was just being thrust upon her, and it was obvious this wasn’t something she could say no to. But Zenthella’s biggest problem with this was that it didn’t look like the child himself had been asked what he thought. Zenthella crouched, trying to meet the child’s eye.

     “So.” Zenthella paused, trying to carefully choose what to say. “Would you want to live with me and him?” Zenthella glanced at Figaro, then back to the boy. Mavetto gawked at her like she was crazy. Quixival looked amused. Fig, Barley, and Cecily gave Zenthella small nods. The child was silent, looking directly at his feet. Zenthella needed to find another way to engage the child. “What’s your name?”

     “I don’t have one.” The voice was soft, sad brown eyes meeting Zenthella’s. Zenthella gave herself an imaginary pat on the back, having gotten the child to speak.“Vic never gave me one. He just called me ‘boy’.” Zenthella stopped patting herself on the back, her insides slowly freezing. 

     “My name’s Dappled Zenthella, but my friends call me Zen. I think ‘boy’ is a terrible name. We should get you a proper one as quickly as we can.” She forced a smile onto her face and could only hope it didn’t look too fake. Zenthella didn’t think losing face in front of her soon to be ward was a good way to start things off.

     The child’s mouth quirked, a smile appearing before disappearing as quickly as it came. “Why do you have two first names?” Zenthella cocked an eyebrow and the boy visibly flinched, terrified he had said something wrong. “Sorry, I’m not trying to make fun of your name. I’m sorry. Iwasjustinterestedsorry.” The last words melted together as his eyes fell back to the floor.

     “It’s all right. It is rather curious.” Zenthella paused, trying to decide what to say. “I’m a witch, and in our culture there’s a trend to give witches double names. The first ones travel down individual branches of the family tree, while the entire family keeps the last name. So I’m Dappled Zenthella Sandoute, and my mother was Dappled Lucrita Sandoute. But my cousin is named Rippled Malia Sandoute. Does that make sense?” The child nodded, eyes still averted. “You seem like a pretty smart kid.” Zenthella pushed out a breath. She was going to be frank with the child, something she loved to do. In Zenthella’s opinion, you should say what you mean in the most efficient way possible. On the other hand, scaring an already victimized child was not on her list of ‘things that makes me a good witch’. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this like the others undoubtedly have. You’re not safe. You’re capable of doing magic, like we are, and someone, I assume it’s that Vic you mentioned, is trying to harm you. These people want you to come and live with me for a while, to learn how to use magic and to stay safe. What do you think?” Zenthella laced her hands behind her back, watching the child’s face. To be fair, that was a lot of information to take in at once. She watched confusion and fear flit across his features before melting back into the same neutral expression he had been wearing since he came down.

     “That sounds good.” The voice was quiet but confident. Good. Zenthella could work with that. “And can I choose my name?”

     Zenthella’s heart broke listening to how earnest and shy the child was, asking to name himself. “Of course.”

     “Oh. Good.” The small smile broke back across his face. “I really like Charlie.”

 

     Living with Charlie was simultaneously easier and harder than expected. On the first night Charlie lived with them, Figaro had unlocked the apartment and slipped inside. Zenthella and Charlie followed behind, Zenthella making every effort to make the child comfortable. Charlie had made his way immediately to the couch, sitting on the floor against the arm with his knees hugged to his chest. He stayed like that for approximately thirty seconds, before scrambling to pet the dog that had trotted out from Zenthella’s room.

     “You have a dog! And it’s so fluffy! What type is it?” It was the most emotion Zenthella had seen Charlie display. From the moment it was determined Charlie would live with her Zenthella had been mentally filing every detail she could on the child. She wanted to know what he likes and doesn’t like, how he reacts to certain stimuli, his thoughts and opinions. It was harder than she expected, because Charlie seemed to take efforts not to give anything away. Zenthella had never wanted to be a mother, and even Charlie’s raw joy with Barber didn’t shake that decision. But damn, if it didn’t do her heart good to see the child smile.

     “This is Barber. He’s an Alaskan Malamute, and he’s the biggest softie you will ever met in your life.” Zenthella scratched behind Barber’s ears, watching Charlie hug the dog. “I see that you like dogs.”

     “I love dogs.” Charlie was enraptured with the dog, then abruptly broke away. As if someone had flipped a switch Charlie’s arms dropped to his side, face turned down. He murmured something that may have been an apology, then sat down. Barber lied down beside him, but Charlie made no move to pet him. Zenthella frowned, but she didn’t push. Charlie barely spoke during dinner. As it turns out, Charlie believed in going to bed early. That was fine with Zenthella. It meant she could watch all the Netflix she wanted. She was curled up on the couch with Barber, talking to her dog about their new housemate.

     “He’s so closed off.” Zenthella popped another piece of popcorn in her mouth as she addressed her dog. “There was abuse of some sort, obviously. I’m just not sure what kind. Or how to proceed. I’m terrified of doing the wrong thing.” Another piece of popcorn went in, Zenthella’s frown deepening with every chew. “I can ask Barley and Cecily to come over more often. At this rate if they came over any more they’d practically live here. Maybe Charlie will talk to them, say something he wouldn’t want to say to his guardian. He needs a friend. You can be his friend too, right?” Barber gave Zenthella a look before laying his head down. The two stayed like that on the couch for quite some time.


	3. Raising Questions

Zenthella woke up to everything in her room floating. This was not the most unusual thing that had ever happened in her house, or even in this room. The problem was that neither Zenthella nor Figaro was not responsible for everything’s newfound aversion to the floor.

“Charlie.” Zenthella breathed the word, nudging Barber with her foot. “We need to make sure he’s okay. Zenthella dropped to the floor and threw open the door, making her way to Charlie’s room. In the living room, all the furniture was in a similar state as her bedroom. A glance into the kitchen showed appliances floating as well. Panic began to make its way into her gut. “Charlie!” Barber had already pawed open the door to the child’s room; Zenthella stopped in her tracks when she saw what was happening inside. Charlie dangled above the bed, raw energy crackling around him. His eyes were closed, but his body would occasionally twitch and spasm.

Barber looked at Zenthella, then back to Charlie helplessly. With a whisper the dog fell away, Figaro shifting back into his human form. Zenthella held her breath as the familiar held his hand out to the floating child. “I can’t feel any magic affecting him. All this is him.”

“Drown me. He’s doing all of it?”

“Yep. He’s dreaming, it seems, and lashing out. What should we do?”

“I don’t know! Lucrita probably would have just thrown a bucket of water at me and called it done!” Figaro bit his lip, undoubtedly grumbling something about Zenthella’s mother’s parenting style. Zenthella cut him off with a look. “Not the time Fig. Should we wake him?”

Figaro gave her a wild look. “Isn’t there some rule about not waking sleepwalkers though? Would that apply?”

The panic in Zenthella’s gut boiled over. “I DON’T THINK THIS IS THE SAME AS SLEEPWALKING!” Immediately after yelling she regretted it. Zenthella stopped and shook her head. She needed to act, not react. “Here.” Figaro deftly caught the chalk thrown at him by Zenthella, and cocked his head to the side.

“Great, what do I do?”

“Absorption runes. They’ll take all the wayward energy while we figure out how to wake him up.” Figaro nodded in confirmation, and the two began quickly drawing. A great circle, two minor circles. Two converging lines to meet the greater circle from the minor, and fixation points to lock it all. With a flicker of energy Zenthella powered the runes and the two regrouped.

“I shouldn’t have shouted,” Zenthella said, inclining her head.

“No, you shouldn’t have. But this isn’t the time.”

“I didn’t want to forget to say.”

“It’s alright.”

“Good.” Zenthella focused, summoning her batons. “I’m just going to try an awakening. Lend me your strength?”

“I am yours,” Figaro completed, placing his hand on Zenthella’s shoulder. Zenthella felt the rush the moment Figaro made contact, the two halves of her soul singing to be together. She pushed away the feeling for now, focusing on her sigil.

“Awaken,” she breathed, letting the energy flow from the marks in the air. For a moment nothing happened, then Charlie’s eyes drifted open. Then he fell.

 

Charlie had been dreaming. It was a very bad dream, he knew that much. It was slipping away though, slipping faster than he could put his hands on it. His back hurt, and he could focus on that. The room was dark, illuminated only by… runes. On the walls. Charlie’s breathing caught as he looked up. Two figures loomed over him, one looking distressingly familiar. He was about to scream, about to run, about to do  _ something _ when Zenthella’s voice reached him.

“Charlie. Are you okay? We’re here, what can we do?” Zenthella wasn’t above him, she was beside him, holding him, he was okay, okay, okay. Figaro was on his other side, rubbing his shoulder. Charlie was at Zenthella’s apartment, not trapped in some stone basement. Everything was dark, but Zenthella was there.

“Zenthella.” It was a plea and a question and a statement.

“Yeah.” It was the only response.

 

Breakfast the next morning was less awkward than Zenthella had thought it would be. Charlie came out of his room without having to be asked, and answered any questions Zenthella gave him. Of course, Zenthella didn’t exactly jump into asking about last night. The two were quietly eating with Barber curled beneath the table. Everything was calm. Zenthella thought a little tact would go a long way.

“Why did that happen last night?” There goes tact, thrown to the wind by an earnest question.

“You’re young,” Zenthella said simply. “Your magic isn’t all under your control yet, especially since you’ve never been trained. And you’re a teenager, so…” Zenthella took a long sip of coffee. “You’re just kinda a mess right now in terms of development. There’s nothing wrong with you.” 

Charlie sat quietly, eyes firmly focused on the bowl of cereal in front of him. “It was awful,” he said at last. “Will it happen again?”

Zenthella stopped mid-scoop, placing her spoon back in her bowl. “Ah.” Fingers drummed against the table. “Honestly, I don’t know,” she admitted, “it could potentially happen again. The best way for you to not worry about your power is for us to teach you how it works. So I guess that means I need to start putting together notes on what to teach you.”

“What can you tell me now?” Charlie’s eyes were fixed on her, cereal long forgotten.

“Oh. Um.” Zenthella thought for a moment. “Let’s start with what magic is. Everything in this world has energy. Let’s call this energy Alpha Energy, or A. Alpha Energy is created just as an object exists, with no other requirements. If it exists, it has A. Depending on what the things is though, it has varying levels of A. The chair you’re sitting on has much less energy than the bowl you’re eating out of, which then in turn has astronomically less energy than you or me. The thing is though, when two things interact, the Alpha Energies interact too. When two Alpha Energies come together, they create what’s called Beta Energy. We can call that B. You following me?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. So because A is literally everywhere, and everything is always interacting with each other, B is created everywhere too. The thing is, B is more dynamic, being born from action. Most magic is done by tapping into this Beta Energy, like so.” Zenthella only knew a small handful of spells that she could do by will alone, but this would suffice. With a small pop a ball of fire flared to life in her palm. “I’ve taken the Beta Energy and more or less forced it together, making raw magic. I can then-” Zenthella stopped, noticing Charlie’s now very pale face. “What?”

Charlie didn’t say anything, just focused on the fire with wide, scared eyes. Zenthella quickly understood. She closed her fist, extinguishing the fire. The room was quiet.

“Can you continue, or do you need a moment?” Zenthella winced internally, that sounded harsher than she had intended.

“I want to finish.” The kid was shaking. The movement was small, but it was there.

“Alright. Sorry for…” Zenthella didn’t quite know what to say. “For that. Back to it then. We take raw magic from compiling B, and we can use this raw magic in a variety of ways. The first thing you will learn to do is shape raw magic into tangible batons.” To illustrate her point, Zenthella summoned one of hers. “You can throw raw magic around if you like, and it’s all poor Figaro can do. But we can take the batons, or runes, or hand gestures, and so on, to further refine the raw magic into something like lightning or magnetics. Did everything I just say make sense?”

Charlie leaned forward, then leaned back and gave a small nod. “Yeah.”

“Alright then, I guess that was your first lesson. Charlie,” Zenthella reached across the table, momentarily touching Charlie’s hand. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Charlie nodded, then stood up from the table. “Um…” Zenthella couldn’t miss his fingers quietly drumming against his leg. “I have this. Magic, I mean. And I’ll always have it?”

“Yeah.” Zenthella sat still, running a hand through Barber’s fur. Charlie didn’t say anything else as he left.

Figaro silently shifted into human form once Charlie had shut his door. He and Zenthella had mutually agreed to not reveal that the dog Charlie loves so much was also his second guardian. Figaro leveled a stare at Zenthella. “Zen, real talk. Are you picking up what I am?”

“His fear? Yeah.”

Figaro swore under his breath as Zenthella took a sip of coffee. “What are we going to do? He has to be trained, otherwise he’s a danger to himself.”

“And others,” Zenthella said.

“Yeah. So, what’s to be done?”

Zenthella firmly sat down her mug. “We’ll start witchling training like normal, I suppose. Charlie’s capable, and we can be good teachers. You need to teach him raw magics, because he’ll respond to you much better than he will to me. Besides, I like the history stuff more anyways.”

“And we just go from there?”

Zenthella nodded. “We just go from there. It’s all we can do.”


	4. A Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's always just so much to be learned.

As the weeks went by, Charlie was acclimating nicely to life with the witch and her familiar. Charlie would walk Barber in the mornings and help Zenthella with the dishes at night. Things stopped floating, so Zenthella and Figaro could only assume the dreams were getting better. Charlie had been signed up for a community ballet class and was excelling. Barley and Cecily would drop in for dinner once or twice a week, and everyone except Charlie would talk about everything and anything that crossed their mind. While Charlie didn’t partake in the same constant talking as the adults, he was opening up more, which made Zenthella especially pleased. Among the typical dinner conversations was where everyone though Mavetto’s distinct accent was from, the current state of the environment, what TV show deserved awards this season, and when Charlie was going to get a much needed haircut. Charlie quickly learned that Barley and Cecily also lived on the second floor of the house, and he learned that the house was actually a Coventium outpost. While Barley and Cecily technically kept a residence in the apartment suite on the other half of the second floor, the two usually preferred to stay on the Coventium estate or out on assignment. The third floor was basically an indoor garden full of plants and glass windows, and the first floor was a lobby and meeting spaces for any Coventium witches that dropped by. In addition to learning all of that, Charlie was learning a lot about the Coventium.

“Charlie, where is the Coventium America located?” Zenthella was rigorous with her training of the boy; it was important that Charlie knew his history just as well as runes and invocations. The pair was on the couch; Zenthella decreed that the best learning happens when one was comfortable. Consequently, most of Charlie’s lessons were given in pyjamas.

“The Coventium America does not have a permanent physical location,” Charlie recited, eyebrows coming together as he remembered what Zenthella had told him. “Familiars can open portals to the halls of the estate, but you can’t just walk up and physically open a door. The grounding point for the headquarters is somewhere in Veracruz. To protect the estate, familiars are the only ones who know how to access it, and all familiars have binding oaths to never reveal the location.”

“Perfect.” Zenthella was extremely pleased. Charlie was progressing in history much faster than she anticipated. Charlie’s magic though… left something to be desired. Charlie could successfully manifest raw energy, and Figaro was teaching him how to shape the raw energy into something more useful. Beyond that, Charlie wasn’t displaying much of an aptitude for specific magics. Any magic, really. “Why does the Coventium exist?”

Charlie looked up, as if he was confused by the question. “To monitor and govern magic and magic users. They have to keep us in line and make sure we don’t just go out and be open in the real world.”

Zenthella allowed herself a small smile. “Magic isn’t a secret Charlie.” Charlie wasn’t sure exactly what look he gave Zenthella, but it must have been close to total disbelief. “Magic isn’t a secret,” Zenthella repeated. “From there, magic practitioners- magi- aren’t a secret either. Especially with these stars on the backs of our necks. We stay out of the spotlight though, and most people don’t really think about us. We build our own communities, and we have our own government. The Coventium regulates witches because it keeps us out of the national government’s hair, and ‘cause it keeps us out of the public eye. One government for a group of people scattered across two continents is a lot more favorable than rewriting domestic and international law to accommodate magic across every country.”

“I suppose that makes sense. But really, people just don’t think of us?”

“Think of it this way. Actually, give me a second to think of a good comparison.” Zenthella was silent for a moment. “Alright. How often do you think of about the people who edit closed captions? You don’t really ever use the captions, and even then you probably think it’s just all done by computers. Witches are kinda like that. We exist, but that little magic detail is so far out of daily life for most people it just goes unnoticed.” Zenthella nodded, proud of her analogy. It was imperfect, but good enough to get the point across.

“Oh.” Charlie made one final mark in his notebook before sitting it down. “Barber,” Charlie called, “Come here!” Charlie carefully removed himself from the pile of blankets he and Zenthella had been learning in, heading into his room to change into looser dance clothes. “Hey Zen,” Charlie asked through the door, “Why do we have these marks on our necks?”

Zenthella let out a slow breath, fingers unconsciously massaging the tattoo. “It’s a really long story Charlie, much longer than I have time to tell you before dance. And it’s not the kind of story you want to tell in halves or parts. I promise I’ll tell you the whole thing, but not right now.”

“Okay!” Charlie emerged from his room, ballet shoes in one hand and a leash in the other. “Barber, let’s go!” Barber trotted out from the kitchen, sitting calmly as Charlie clipped his collar. “Bye Zen, be back soon!”

“Bye Charlie, bye Barber!” Zenthella adjusted the mountain of blankets around her as she opened the essay she was editing, one hand ensuring that a particularly worrisome braid was still secure. Her hand fell from her hair to her neck, once again rubbing the five point brand on her neck.

 

The walk to the dance studio took Charlie and Barber three minutes and fifty-three seconds at a deliberate walk, three minutes even at a powerwalk, and two minutes flat at a full fun. Charlie and Barber got there in three minutes. The studio was quiet, as was normal, and Charlie gave Barber a quick rub behind the ears before sliding into the classroom proper. Miss C was there already, adjusting the volume on the stereo.

“Good evening Charlie, how are you doing tonight?”

“Good,” Charlie said quietly, slipping on his shoes.

Miss C let out that high, airy laugh that Charlie was only mostly sure was genuine. “One of these days I’ll get you to respond to me in more than just one word.” Charlie offered a small, polite smile before moving to his spot on the floor. Katherine was already there, surprising no one. The girl practically lived at the studio. The only other member of the class was another girl whose name Charlie still hadn’t learned. Charlie politely greeted them with a monosyllabic “hi.” Then they began.

The group had just finished the floor stretches when the door opened, admitting a boy with short blonde hair and a distressed look on his face. The newcomer took one look around, opened his mouth, a let out a stream of noise.

“I’m so sorry I’m late I didn’t know how to get here and the door was hard to open and it’s all just kinda yikes but here I am so what’s happening?” The boy pushed out all the words together in one breath and threw a mediocre smile at Miss C.

“Ah. You must be Davie. I am Cassandra, but please call me Miss C. We’re doing our plies, so go the barre.”

Davie gave another one of those smiles that he must have thought were stunning before falling in line right behind Charlie at the barre.

“Full disclosure,” Davie whispered in Charlie’s ear, voice almost silent under the loud music, “I have no idea what I’m doing.” The boy’s breath was warm, and Davie was entirely too close for Charlie’s liking. “Can you help me?”

“Watch,” Charlie commanded, gesturing to his feet. The class continued cycle through the plies, moving into fifth position.

“You, um… don’t have to tell me twice.” Charlie shot Davie a look in the mirror. “So, like this?” Charlie looked back at him just in time to see Davie butcher a grand plie.

“This.” Charlie took a breath, moved out his arm, and effortlessly sank into the position. He straightened, taking no small amount of pleasure from the look of astonishment on Davie’s face.

“Damn. Wow,” Davie breathed. “I mean, I knew girls are more flexible than boys, but you’re something else. You’re like fucking water!”

Charlie abruptly stopped halfway through the next position. “Girls?” 

Davie shot Charlie a look of confusion. “Yeah. Girls are generally flexible more flexible than guys.”

“I’m-”

“Across the floor,” Miss C called. “Battements.”

“What the fuck,” mouthed Davie. Charlie allowed himself another eye roll.

“Kicks.” Charlie went across the floor, demonstrating.

“Very good Charlie,” Miss C called, “but remember, point your toes.” Davie followed after Charlie, clumsily kicking his way across the floor. 

The rest of the class went like that, Davie swearing and butchering his attempts at recreating Charlie’s graceful movements. By the end of class Charlie’s eyes actually hurt from the amount of rolling he had subjected them to. Charlie was slumped in a chair in the studio lobby, one hand massaging Barber’s head and the other bringing a water bottle to his lips.

“We never finished our conversation earlier.” There was Davie, looking down at Charlie.

“No.”

Davie’s posture changed, leaning in just a little and slightly moving one hip out. “Why do you only use one word responses?”

“Why did you think I’m a girl?”

Davie’s face morphed into an expression of mild horror. “Holy shit. You’re not?”

“Language,” Charlie said. “And no.”

“Oh man I am so so sorry. I totally thought you were a girl!” Next to the two boys, Barber was making a strange, rumbling sound.

“Why,” Charlie demanded. “What made you think I’m a girl?”

“Oh.” Davie considered. “You have long hair for a guy, I thought you just had a pixie cut with kinda the swoopy front. And your cheekbones are kinda girly. Not in a bad way,” he added quickly as Charlie self consciously touched his face. “Your lips are quirked like a girl’s too, and you were wearing long pants, so I couldn’t see leg hair. Charlie can be a girl’s or guy’s name, so that was kinda confusing. And, um, whoop, there it is. Again, I’m really sorry.”

“Why?” Charlie was done being self conscious, now he was just curious for curiosity’s sake.

“I…” Davie made a frustrated noise. “I just told you why!”

“No, why do you keep apologizing?”

Davie looked incredulous. “Do you like that I mistook you for a girl?” 

Something in Charlie’s mind snagged. “I don’t mind as much as you think I should. It doesn’t bother me at all. Should it?”

“I… I gotta go. My mom’s here.” Without another word Davie was gone, out the door and into a car outside.

Charlie looked to Barber, still making that sound. “Oh, stop that.” Barber just blinked up at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re laughing at me.”


	5. In The Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Figaro pushes, and Charlie gives. Also, adults fret.

“Charlie, focus. Please. We’re almost there.” Figaro sat against the door, calmly watching Charlie struggle in the center of the room.

“Fig, it feels like we’ve been in here for hours.” Charlie hadn’t lowered himself to begging, not yet, but his desperation was building.

“It’s only been…” Figaro checked the clock, “eighty seven minutes. You can do this Charlie. Manifest the raw energy. See it. Then shape it.” The two were locked in one of the downstairs rooms of the Coventium outpost, Figaro blocking the only door. After Charlie’s initial moment of confusion, followed by a rapid stage of anger, the witchling had accepted Figaro’s declaration. The only way for either of them to leave was for Charlie to manifest his batons. He had certainly dragged his feet up until now. Charlie had slowly learned his runes, silently absorbed magic theory, but his batons were… lacking. Summoning the batons had sounded easy at first. Get raw magic, shape it into batons. Two steps, then they could leave. Charlie had quickly found that it was not, in fact, that easy, and if he had to be in this room one more minute Charlie was going to scream until he passed out.

“Figaro, I just don’t think it’s going to happen any time soon.”

“Then we’re going to be here for a while longer.” Figaro said nothing as Charlie groaned. “Focus, Charlie.”

“Wait, why isn’t Zenthella teaching me this? Shouldn’t she be the one to tell me how to use batons, seeing as you actually can’t?”

Figaro bit back an exasperated sigh, the kind borne of telling someone the same thing too many times. “I’ve told you. Zenthella will teach you how to use the batons and sigil magics after you have summoned them. But I can take more of a beating than she can if the raw magic gets the best of you while you’re making them. But I know it won’t get out of hand, because you’ll focus and be in control. So focus. Make the batons. And let’s get this done.”

Charlie closed his eyes, standing still. Anxiety began to gnaw in his stomach, but he forced it down. He couldn’t be anxious. Not right now. If he stretched out his senses, he could feel the hum of magic around him. He could feel the motion of cars on the road, of people talking, hugging, fighting. He knew birds flew in the sky, each beat of a wing spiking energy into the world. All the magic was right there, but Charlie just couldn’t… grab it. He stretched out his hand and focused on his breathing, pushing his will into the environment. In response, the energy of the environment curled around him. “Ah!”

“It’s alright Charlie. Open your eyes. You’re manipulating it. Form a sphere.” Charlie opened his eyes as Figaro instructed and wanted to scream. He could see the magic he was pulling, and it was smothering him. It was too much, too close, it was in his  _ hand _ and Charlie just couldn’t hold on anymore.

“I can’t, Figaro.” The magic whispered out of life around him. “I just…”

Figaro stood. This moment had been building for a while, and it was time to face it. No way around but through. “You’re afraid of magic.”

The words hit the witchling like a blow after what felt like an eternity. “What? No! I’m, um. I just don’t like it.” Figaro carefully watched Charlie splutter, how his hands moved erratically and his ears turned red. Figaro also saw the panic touch the corners of his eyes.

“You flinch when I open portals, you look away whenever Zen draws her batons. You freak out when magic moves around you, and the moment you see it actually interacting with yourself you stop it all. You’re afraid. And that’s okay.”

Charlie’s mouth hung open, and small noises made their way out sporadically. Charlie took a deep breath and whispered, “It’s not though.” The witchling slumped with his admission. All of a sudden Charlie looked very much like the child he was. He sat down heavily, bringing in his knees and making himself seem as small as possible. “I’m a witch. And I’m Zenthella’s witchling. I have to do magic. It’s like… required. But it’s all just so much. And so strange.”

“Charlie. I’m going to do something and you’re not allowed to freak out.” When Charlie didn’t say no, Figaro shifted into Barber. One breath later, he shifted back into human form. As expected, Charlie flinched, then gaped.

“You’re the dog? Holy shit!”

“Language,” Figaro admonished. “I can’t believe I’m the one telling you that,” he muttered under his breath. “Why did I shift, Charlie? Just now?”

“To make a point, probably,” Charlie grumbled.

“Hell yeah to make a point. Magic is deeply ingrained in your life. It’s in your blood, in your home, in your friends and family. Magic literally gives me life; I function only because magic is the cosmic duct tape holding half of Zen’s soul and a dog together. You interact with it constantly, on a daily basis, and it never has and likely never will hurt you, yet you’re only not afraid of it because you don’t know to be. It’s like being afraid of electricity. Think of all the ways you interact with electricity, and have never been hurt. And yeah Charlie, you got shocked once. You got shocked bad. And I can’t deny that. I can’t make you not afraid. But we’re in this room specifically built to withstand anything you throw at it, you’re with me, a being composed of energy, and I’m telling you to play with fire. I won’t let you get hurt. You’re not out there in a circle somewhere, you are in control. So step up to the plate, get real with me, and summon your batons.” Figaro hated playing hardball. He hated knowing Charlie would resent this moment. That Charlie would resent him. But he had to have his batons. And if that meant playing hardball, Figaro would play hardball, and play dirty at that.

Charlie was very, very still and very, very quiet. For a second Figaro thought he had pushed too hard too fast. Then Charlie let out a breath through his nose. “If I don’t do it this time, we’re done for the day.” Charlie’s voice was almost silent, and absolutely pitiful.

“Give it your all.”

“Alright.” Charlie extended his arms, feeling out the energy again. He silenced everything out, and slowly allowed the magic to touch him. It didn’t hurt, in fact, it didn’t really feel like anything distinct at all. The magic was just… there. A silent pressure just on the top of his skin, almost like a glove. He hated it. He hated Figaro’s incessant pushing. But he had to get this done. Charlie could find time for hate later.

“Focus it into an orb. Then stretch the orb, then split it into two to make your batons.”

Charlie grunted in acknowledgement, focusing on not freaking out. He didn’t like having all the magic touching him. But he wasn’t freaking out. Magic was the tool and he was the craftsman. He was in control. So Charlie just breathed. He felt each breath moving in him, moving out of him, interacting with the world and moving onwards and outwards. Charlie couldn’t help but let out a small groan as he began to focus the magic. He didn’t like it. It was uncomfortable and tingly and not what he wanted. But he wasn’t afraid. With a small pop the magic congealed in his hand, smoothing out into a sphere.

“Good, Charlie. Now- shape the batons.”

Charlie pulled as he was instructed, creating the a oblong shape from the sphere. Then he stopped, considering the shape before him. The batons were there, within the stretched tube of magic. Charlie could almost see them. But at the same time, Charlie could see another shape, lurking just under the surface. He took his fingers and pinched the end of the magic, stretching it slowly. Charlie was barely aware of what he was doing, his brain had locked onto the shape he had seen; his hands seemed to move on their own. His fingers continued to stretch the shape, bringing it to a narrow point. His hands glided down the shaft to the base, where he gently scooped out a dish before connecting it back to the main body of the shaft.

“That doesn’t look like a baton.” Figaro’s 

“It’s not,” Charlie murmured. “I saw a sword and went for it.” His hands continued to move up and down the blade, shaping it and fitting it for his hands. When he was at last satisfied, Charlie let out a deep breath. The blade hovered before him, wrapped in blues and silvers as raw magic continued to run through it.

“Actualize it,” Figaro urged. “Take it.” And Charlie did. The moment Charlie’s hands fastened around the grip, the blue and silver magic seemed to fracture and shatter off of the sword. The blade itself was a polished chrome, very narrow at the tip yet wide near the base. The guard was one long stream of metal wrapped itself in a repeated pattern to create a barrier, and it delicately flowed down to the grip to form a solid handguard. The material of the handle was foreign yet completely comfortable to Charlie’s hand, black to contrast the silver of the rest of the sword. Overall the blade was less than three feet long, and it was the most beautiful thing Charlie had ever seen in his life.

“No batons,” Charlie laughed, his anxieties temporarily melted.

“Nope!” Figaro was exuberant. “But you did it! You actualized an instrument!”

“But they’re not batons.” Charlie suddenly sounded uncertain. “I can’t do magic with this.”

Figaro barked out a quick laugh. “Yes you absolutely can. That thing right there will channel energy just as well as any baton Zen could create any day. You may have a harder time quickly throwing together sigils, but that’s neither here nor there. Besides, when you get good enough you can actualize sigils with your mind alone. What’s important is that you did it!” Figaro crossed the room and pulled Charlie into a hug. It was brief enough not to make Charlie uncomfortable, but long enough that Charlie could appreciate it. When he was being honest with himself, Charlie couldn’t wait for when he could hug as long as he wanted to without freaking out. It was… nice, in an easy way.

“Am I going to have to learn fencing?”

“Probably, but I’m sure Zen and I can find you someone.” Figaro ran a hand through his hair, running through potential teachers. “Cecily’s pretty good with blades, and I think the Executive Librarian at the Estate won all sorts of crazy fencing awards. Speaking of Cecily, we’ll need to take you to her so she can identify what kind of sword it is you’re swinging around, and of course we’ll have to show Zen.”

“Figaro, this is great, but I have a pressing concern.” Charlie’s stomach let out a sustained growl, vocalizing his pressing concern.

“Ah. Food. Let’s go out, there’s that restaurant about a block down the street- want to go there? I can call up Cecily and she can identify your sword.”

Charlie nodded and closed his eyes for a minute. He pictured the sword unraveling, and when he opened his eyes again his hands were satisfactorily empty. “That’s so…”

“Cool? Yeah. I’m really proud of you Charlie. I knew you could do it.” Charlie stayed quiet. That wasn’t exactly the word he would have used. Figaro’s praise made Charlie feel good, definitely, but... Before Charlie could say anything Figaro had resumed speaking.“Hey, head over to the restaurant and I’ll grab Cecily and meet you there. Take the normal booth in the corner.” With a nod Charlie was off. Figaro made his way up the stairs, primly rapping at the door to Cecily and Barley’s apartment. Getting no response, Figaro pivoted and moved down the hall, entering his own home. “Hey Zen, have you seen-”

“-all together.” Zenthella stood in the living room, one hand on Cecily’s shoulder, the other lightly touching the memo in Barley’s hand. All three looked pale. All three turned to Figaro as he entered. “Figaro. We may have a situation.” She handed the memo to the familiar.

The letter was short, but Figaro only really needed to read the first line. He read the entire thing anyways, then again for good measure. He knew Zenthella and Barley had probably read it ten times, desperately searching for some secret meaning or subliminal clue. “Shit. That’s it? No details?” Figaro handed back the memo. “Charlie actualized an instrument,” Figaro said sadly. “That’s what I came up for.”

“That’s… that’s wonderful, Fig.” Something close to joy sparked in Zenthella. She knew Charlie, and she knew he had been struggling. Then she realized why Figaro had sounded so miserable when he broke the news. “Charlie can never know about today, about this memo. This is a happy day for him. No one ruins that. Because this may not even be anything. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said the other three.

“Cecily,” Figaro said, “will you come with me? Charlie’s at the deli, and we want your expert opinion on what his instrument is.”

Zenthella raised an eyebrow. “They’re not batons?”

Cecily squealed. “Ooh! Is it a sword? Swords? Is that why you need me? ‘Cause I know a thing or two about swords.”

“It is a sword,” Figaro said, beginning the process of corralling an excited Cecily out of the door. “Very narrow at the tip, and it gets thicker towards the bottom.”

“Gradually or abruptly?”

“Abrupt.”

“Hm. It may be a colichemarde, but I’ll need to see it to be sure. Ah, bye!” With a wave the familiars were off, bounding down the stairs. Zenthella and Barley stood alone in the apartment.

Barley clicked his tongue and reached for the pocket he used to keep cigarettes. “We’ll just have to see where this goes.”

“Do you ever wished you still smoked?” Zenthella nodded her head towards the pocket Barley had habitually moved to.

“All smoking does is help you die faster,” Barley said. “And if this rumor isn’t completely false, our futures may be uncertain enough that we don’t need cigarettes’ help.”

“Not funny. It may mean nothing.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t funny. Apologies.”

Zenthella massaged a spot on her temple. She was going to have a killer headache by dinner. Tonight was quickly shaping up to be an early night for her. “We’ll just deal with this as needed. It’s probably nothing. They do this sort of thing occasionally, right?” She let out a deep breath. “We should go join them in a few minutes.”

“Probably. I need to congratulate our little witchling on his accomplishment.”

“Yeah. He’s coming along so well. He’s adjusting quickly too. I honestly expected a little more, well, it sounds terrible to say. But I thought he would be more traumatized by everything leading up to here.”

“The mind deals with things in different ways, I suppose.”

“Yeah. I’m a little worried about him.”

“For those same reasons you told me about over coffee? About the memory?”

“Yep. I just have a feeling, you know?”

“I do. I trust that you’ll do the right thing to get to the most satisfactory answer.”

“Urgh, shut up.” Zenthella playfully nudged her friend. “Your professor is showing.” The two laughed, making their way down to congratulate Charlie on his newly confirmed colichemarde. And for the rest of the day, all was well.


	6. Cold Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie is forced to deal with some feelings, and everyone is delivered something long overdue.

It was pretty cold. March meant things were warming up, but Charlie was distinctly uncomfortable. Charlie was frustrated too, but that was unrelated to the cold. He had been in the third floor garden admiring all of the plants Barley grew up here, but Charlie had finally gathered the courage to investigate the spiral staircase in the corner of the garden. The stairs did not lead to a magical pocket dimension, they just led to the very boring roof. In what Charlie could only assume was a cruel trick played by God, the door had locked behind Charlie, leaving him stranded on the very boring roof in his pajamas: a t-shirt and some cartoon boxers. The first five minutes had been spent banging on the door. Unfortunately, Cecily and Barley were gone, and Zenthella was a notoriously heavy sleeper. Charlie had absolutely no idea where Figaro was. So he sat on the roof and looked at the stars. He traced the few constellations he’d been taught, but for the most part he simply admired how they looked. Charlie tried to doze for a bit, but bad dreams quickly woke him up. Charlie had been having a recurring dream for a while now. He was back in the room. Sometimes there were other children with him. Usually there weren’t. Someone would always sneer at him, though the faces liked to change, and the bars of the cage would melt. Everything would melt and Charlie would fall into an inky abyss. Charlie would fall down, down, down, and Zenthella or Figaro or Barley or Cecily or his mother or his father would not be there to catch him. Then Charlie would fall into the flames, knowing he would never come out. On the roof Charlie shivered from more than just the cold. Eventually he settled in a series of dance forms, taking his time to feel every muscle engage in the stretches and poses. Charlie was halfway through his second set when he noticed Figaro sitting on the roof watching him.

Figaro cocked an eyebrow. “Why are you out here half naked?”

“I thought it would be more polite than being out here fully naked,” Charlie snarked. “How long have you been watching me?”

Figaro stood, making sure to leave the hatch open. “I got out here when you were doing the grand plie in first position. So about, say, four minutes?” Figaro sat back down, gesturing Charlie to continue his dance series.

“Are you going to just sit here and watch me? That’s kinda… weird.” Charlie was comfortable with Figaro, of course. But something felt off about having the familiar just watch him dance in slow motion.

“I don’t see it as weird. You’re dancing. Dancing is art that lives and breathes. Zen and I once spent a summer with a culture that used dance as a communication. Everyone moved to the rhythm of the ocean, and how they moved and danced was a real-time expression of how they felt. Interesting people, we should take you there sometime. Strange fixation on precious gems though.” Figaro gestured again for Charlie to resume dancing, and shrugged when Charlie sat down instead.

“Do you dance, Fig?”

The familiar rolled his eyes. “Only when I have to.”

“Do you sing?”

Figaro flinched, ever so slightly. “No.”

Charlie catalogued the flinch. He was cataloguing more and more these days. He knew he should stop, that the days when Charlie needed to take note of those things were over. But old habits died hard, it seemed. “How did you know I was up here?”

Figaro’s lip twitched at the corner, a tell Charlie learned only a few days into living with him. Figaro was currently deciding how to best say something he thought Charlie might not take well. “I could smell your fear,” Figaro said at last, “and I wanted to come check on you. I didn’t expect the whole half naked and locked out thing though.” Figaro paused for a moment, looking out across the city. When Figaro spoke again, his voice was soft enough Charlie knew he could pretend to have not heard him speak. “What had you so scared?”

“It was a dream,” Charlie said in an equally low voice. “I was falling and my family wasn’t there.” Figaro looked at Charlie from the corner of his eye, then put his hand around Charlie’s shoulder, pulling the child against him.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Figaro paused, feeling Charlie shiver. “Stars above, you must be freezing. Do you want to go in?”

“No, not now. I’m thinking.”

“Well here, at least put these on.” Figaro moved to slip off his sweatpants, only to be stopped by Charlie.

“Don’t bother with that, ‘cause then you’ll have my problem. I’m not going to freeze to death.” Charlie huffed out a breath, regarding the familiar out of the corner of his eye. “You’re such a guy, Fig.” Charlie looked out across the city, thoughts furrowing his brow. “I don’t get it. That comfort and ease with your…” Charlie flopped down, looking for the right word. “Your manliness, I guess. I don’t know.” The two were quiet again. “I’ve been thinking,” Charlie began.

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, shut up. If you make fun I’ll just clam up.” It wasn’t an idle threat. Figaro backed off. “I don’t feel… like a guy. I just don’t have that thing… I mean. When I look at stereotypical guys, I just… I’m not in there. Or, I don’t see that in me. And I don’t think of myself in terms of a man or a boy or a dude. It’s not like I feel like a woman or anything though. I’m just Charlie. And that’s weird, right? And then someone was talking about how I don’t look like a guy and making it out like it was some big thing, but honestly it was... comfortable? I don’t, oh, I don’t really know. I’m just rambling. And I don’t really know anything. It’s probably just all in my head. I probably shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Figaro gave himself a moment to do nothing but breathe. He first registered that Charlie was telling him this. Charlie was comfortable enough for this. It felt as if a weight was lifted from the familiar’s shoulders. Figaro’s second thought was much more related to the subject at hand. This felt like one of those moments where everything matters; every word will be remembered and scrutinized because this was the moment where something big happened. Figaro needed to get this right. “For some people,” Figaro began, trying not to say anything wrong, “the standard concept of male and female don’t quite fit. I’m not the best person to explain this to you for a variety of reasons. But you’re not alone in feeling outside of being a guy. And definitely not weird. A term for it is non-binary, and I trust your ability to use the internet to figure everything else out from there.” Figaro bit the inside of his lip. He sounded clinical and detached, like a textbook, and all together not helpful enough. He hated it, but it was all he knew to say.

“Oh.” Charlie was silent. He looked across the city, then snuck a glance at Figaro. “Non-binary.” Charlie said it carefully, as if he was testing the word and seeing how it felt on his tongue.  “Is… is that me? I think it might be. Like I said, someone said something a while ago, that boy at dance, and it just kinda… started me thinking. And now we’re here and I just don’t know what I want.” Figaro sighed, bumping his shoulder against Charlie’s.

“It’s not my place to tell you. That’s for you to figure out kiddo. Welcome to the wonderful world of growing up and figuring out who you are as a person.” Charlie fixed the familiar with a bland glare.

“It sucks.”

“Yeah. Let’s get you inside.”

 

 

 

“Zenthella?”

“Yes Charlie?”

“I… um…”

Zenthella looked up from her essay. The two were on the couch quietly working. Zenthella had a new client, and was reviewing a supplemental essay for some school in New York. Charlie was working on the journal Zenthella was compelling him to keep. “What’s up Charlie?”

Charlie bit the end of his pencil. “You know, I had something I wanted to talk about but I don’t want to anymore so let’s not.”

Zenthella folded down her laptop. “It’s always easier to say whatever it is and deal with it next. Holding big stuff in is always harder than just letting it out.”

“Oh. Well. Um. I don’t feel like a guy. I feel kinda close, but not quite. It’s had to explain well, for me. For now. I talked with Fig, and I did some googling, and I think the right term is non-binary, and there it is.”

Zenthella sat there for a moment, then nodded and reopened her computer. “Alright.”

“That’s it?” Charlie was, in a word, underwhelmed. “You don’t have a bunch of questions or want to go over it any more?”

“Do you want to go over it any more? Does it need to have a big deal made out of it? You are who you say you are and you are how you act. There aren’t any hoops to jump through to validate yourself to me. I’ll ask questions as I have them, and I’ll learn as you tell me more.” Zenthella’s fingers moved on the keyboard as Charlie was silent. “Here, I do have a question. Will you want us to use ‘they’ to refer to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Zenthella continued to type as something in Charlie’s heart exploded. So much had changed in less than two months, and it still struck them every day just how much they were loved.

“Hey Zenthella?”

“Yeah Charlie?”

“I- um.” Their tongue caught for a second. Charlie could feel their ears going red.

Realization sparked in Zenthella’s eyes, and her eyes smiled that same silent smile Charlie had seen the night they had met. “Love you too Charlie.”


	7. Fancy Ink for Fancy Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenthella gets a letter, and Charlie is introduced to the great big world.

Bad tidings came to Dappled Zenthella’s brood in a letter. Letters usually meant boring things like bills or petitions. This particular letter was markedly different from other, more boring letters-- this one was in a lavender envelope with intricate calligraphy on the front. The back was sealed with some blue wax, the encircled five point star of the Coventium stamped in the center. Charlie had picked up the mail, as they did every day. They paused when they saw the seal.

“Fig, come here for a moment.” The familiar meandered his way from the kitchen area to the front door, stopping when he saw the letter in Charlie’s hands.

“Shit.” Figaro was silent for a moment, unsure what else to say. “Fuck.” He added eloquently. 

“Language,” Charlie murmured out of habit. “What does it mean?” Figaro ran a hand through his hair, then pulled it up into a bun.

“Something’s about to happen. I have to step out for a moment. Charlie, give me the envelope.” Figaro cocked his head in thought, then shook it. “Actually, put the letter in the hollow space in the bay window. If anyone tries to get the letter that’s not family, blast ‘em with all the magic you can throw. I’ll be back.” With a flash of light Figaro was gone. Charlie had barely walked over to the bay window before a portal opened up behind them.

“-half dressed with you hair in that stupid bun.” Zenthella emerged from the portal with Figaro close behind her. “Charlie, let me see the letter.” The witch all but snatched the letter out of Charlie’s hands, breaking the seal with a snap of raw magic. “Teal wax,” she said to no one in particular. “And it’s his handwriting.” Zenthella’s eyes traveled down the page, her empty hand twiddling with a braid. “All summoned… Damn it. Would it kill Mavetto to give us any actual details? Figaro, read this and memorize it. Burn it afterwards. Are Barley and Cecily home?”

“No, I checked right before I got you.”

“Fine. We’ll meet up on the estate.”

Charlie had been doing their best to keep up with everything, but they definitely caught that last bit. “Zen, did you say estate? Like, the Coventium America estate?”

Zenthella paused, regarding the child. “Yeah. Charlie, I need you to go get dressed in those clothes Barley brought you. I believe you called them a ‘weird mix of a poncho and vampire robes.’ Quickly now.” With a nod Zenthella headed into her own room. Charlie rushed to their room, pulling out the “witch entourage” clothes, as Barley had called them. Grey pants were buttoned. Black leather boots were laced. Charlie regarded the shirt in front of them; it looked almost like a poncho with sleeves, made of the same fabric as the pants.

Figaro poked his head in the door, appraising Charlie’s readiness. “The shirt sucks, but I don’t care so put it on. We have to go.” Charlie sighed, slipping on the offending garment. In the living room, Charlie was pleased to see Figaro was wearing the same clothes as they were. “Zenthella will need to put the crest on your sleeves, then you’ll be ready.” Figaro turned, banging on the witch’s door. “Zen! Charlie needs the crest and we need to go! The summons were immedient.”

Charlie could have sworn there was thunder when Dappled Zenthella Sandoute’s door opened. “I know,” she said through gritted teeth. Sigils formed around her fingers, and Charlie could smell burning on their sleeves. “Don’t touch them,” Zenthella ordered, “they’re hot. It’s my family’s crest.” Charlie thought it looked more like three ovals and a line, but they kept their mouth shut. Zenthella was in an outfit Charlie had never seen before: a red jacket with a mandarin collar and sharply creased pants. She was wearing the same black boots as Charlie and Figaro, but with a gold band around her head bearing the Sandoute crest.

“You rebraided your hair and everything.” Figaro noted.

Zenthella nodded, rolling her shoulders. “You read the letter. This is important.” She turned to Charlie then, apology in her eyes. “I’m sorry about all of this Charlie, but I promise I’ll explain it to you when we get there.” She paused, looking around the apartment. Finding everything satisfactory, she reached into her purse and got out a stick of gum, handing one to Charlie as well. “Let’s go then.”

Figaro made his complicated finger twists, opening the portal. Dappled Zenthella Sandoute walked through, followed closely by Charlie. Figaro followed behind, the portal blinking out behind him.

 

The trio emerged in a dazzlingly lit grassy courtyard. Directly ahead of them was an inlaid reflection pool, a statue reaching out of it. Lining the courtyard were trees Charlie didn’t recognize, and beyond the statue Charlie could see a brick building with columns in front of a door.

“Figaro, explain everything to Charlie. I’m going to go on ahead and start getting shit done.” Zenthella walked ahead, leaving the two behind. Neither Charlie nor Figaro found it within them to chastise her for her language.

“Alright then,” Figaro said. “As you know, we’re in a pocket dimension, with the grounding mark in Veracruz. Hence the climate and the native flora, such as the  _ ficus insipida _ lining the courtyard; there’s some trivia for you. That’s marigold around the reflection pond, but you probably don’t care about plants. Directly ahead is the main assembly. If any of this reminds you of Old World French architecture, it’s because when white magi came to the New World they were just as pervasive as the non-magic ones. Why bother with indigenous styles when you can copy France? But I digress. The front porch is very nice and shady, the carvings on the columns are exquisite, yada yada yada. Inside the glass doors is a massive marble reception hall were Zenthella is right now. There’s an upper level where the Matriarch lives with Mavetto, and she has her own little balcony from which Mavetto loves to look down upon the reception hall. You’ll see all that later though. On each side of the reception hall are two massive doors that lead to the north and south wings of the estate.”

Charlie let out a small gasp as they realized that the true size of the estate around them, brick walls dotted with windows lurked behind the trees encircling the courtyard. “It’s so big.”

“Yeah,” Figaro said. “All the common rooms and bunks and meeting spaces, save for the glass sunroom, are in the wings. The glass sunroom is a fancy meeting space witches use for formal occasions, complete with another balcony for Mavetto to preen on. On the far east side,” Figaro pointed a thumb behind him, “are the library and archives. Those stone steps lead to the library on the top floor, and there are some interior stairs via the north and south wings. But you can’t access the ground level archives without going through the library or blowing up some walls. I don’t recommend the latter. Behind the library is flower garden, but I honestly couldn’t tell you what flowers are grown. Rumor has it the flowers change to suit the observer. But that’s all speculation. And that’s the crash summary of the estate. Questions?”

“Just one for now.” Charlie pointed to the statue in the pond. It depicted a woman with a flowing cape, one hand holding a pistol by her leg and the other hand lifted above her holding a crescent moon. “Who is that?”

Figaro smiled, both at Charlie’s ignorance and his own affection to the statue. “That is the single most important witch in history. Her name is Glorious Adaline, and she is a hero to us.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Ah.” Figaro rubbed the back of his neck. “To be blunt, we don’t know a lot about Adaline. We don’t even know her last name, only her witch and first names.We know that there was a relic of some sort, and she prevented the relic from being used by evil magi. Those same evil magi killed her though, and purged her from history as best they could.”

Charlie kneeled on the stones encircling the pool, cupping the fiery flowers that grew between them. “She’s pretty,” they said simply.

“Yeah, I suppose she is.” Charlie rose and the two began to walk towards the main house. “She organized the first Coventium, the Adalians, in Europe, and it was actually Adrien, son of Alyss, grandson of Adaline herself, who built most of this estate. Adaline’s death was a super huge deal, and it sparked a week’s worth of intense continent-wide warring. But that’s all mostly behind us.”

Stepping onto the shaded porch was immediately cooling, and Charlie took a moment to inspect the columns that lined the edge. “They’re all carved differently,” Charlie noted. “Here’re the stars, here’s a depiction of plants and animals and stuff, this is the ocean, I think, and is that…?”

“Earth,” Figaro supplied. “Wind’s on the far end. Early Adalians philosophized that you draw your powers from one of five discrete sources. The energy of the stars, of nature, of the earth or the sea or the winds. These days we know it’s all a bit more connected, but these columns were carved long before we knew that.” Figaro didn’t have time to say much else before the great glass doors opened and Zenthella stepped outside.

“How are y’all doing?” Zenthella looked tired already, a tiny bead of sweat working down her brow. “Charlie, I have someone for you to meet. Come inside.” Zenthella took Charlie by the arm and all but dragged them through the doors and into the reception hall. Figaro hadn’t been lying, it was huge. Charlie was stunned by the sheer diversity of the witches milling about, and by the number of animals darting here and there. Zenthella dragged Charlie through the crowd, murmuring various pardons before stopping in front of a teen wearing a burgundy cardigan over a white button down and the same pants and boots Charlie now assumed was witch dress code. “Charlie, this is apprentice librarian Svele Andrew. He’s going to take you to see the library so you’re not stuck here with me and Fig and all the politics.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Andrew said. Andrew held out his hand for a second before letting it fall back to his side, quickly sensing that it would be refused. “Alright then, let’s get this show on the road,” Andrew said with forced enthusiasm. “Let’s go Charlie.” With one last desperate look at Zenthella, Charlie allowed themselves to be dragged off by the other witchling.

“I’m sure they’ll thank you for that later,” Figaro said drily.

“Andrew’s not so bad,” Zenthella countered. “Oh God Fig, this is such a mess. I didn’t think it would get this busy this fast, but it’s already all begun. I need you to find Barley and Cecily for me, find their rooms, and tell them we all need to meet up.” Zenthella shot a quick look over her shoulder only to look back at Figaro with an exhausted horror. “Jesus, we didn’t even go ten minutes without her finding us.”

“Ellie, is that you over there?” A voice cut across the room like a missile targeting Zenthella’s ears. By the time Zenthella had turned around Lucrita was already there.

“Hello Mother,” Zenthella said patiently, plastering a smile on her face.


	8. A Matter of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenthella gets some time with her mom, then gets some very unpleasant news.

“Ellie, you haven’t called in weeks. Drown me, I had almost thought you had up and died on me.” Lucrita was rapid fire, as per usual, giving Zenthella absolutely no time to even think about replying. “You really should call me more. We live in this wonderful age of cellphones! But enough about that. Your familiar is still in human form? How risque. Perhaps he should change? Are your friends here yet, the Jewish one and the bird? Oh, I don’t suppose it really matters. I’m just so glad to see you! What are your thoughts as to everything that’s happening here? Coventium Europe’s been backed to the river and is about to get fucked sideways, pardon my language. The poor dears are still recovering from that incident, what was it, four months ago? Library gone, what a shame. Well, I say library, but it was really the whole damn thing wasn’t it? Pardon my language. I do wonder if we’ll have to help them. Helen’s probably pulling her hair out, but at least we’ve got the Pair now. I am glad they managed to save those. You would think with all that magic they’d be able to rebuild a lot faster. Or honestly stop a fire in the first place. But so it goes.” Lucrita stopped her string of words to peer into her daughter’s eyes. “Are you ill? Mad at me for some reason? You haven’t said a peep!”

“No mother, I’m just tired.” Zenthella put out a yawn for effect. “You know how these things drain me.”

“Aw, hon. It’ll be over soon, don’t you worry so much. I don’t suppose this’ll take more than an hour or two, what’s Quixival going to say? That we want to get ensnared up in that shitstorm? Pardon my language. Stars above, no. Absolutely not. And if she tries, well, I’ll use some of that Sandoute pull to let her know exactly what I think about that.” Lucrita shook her shoulders slightly as she spoke, bouncing her hair around her face excitedly.

“I’m sure you will, I’m sure you will. Is Faith here yet? Or Malia? Or Uncle Joseph?”

“No, not yet, perhaps.” Lucrita’s head bobbed with every word. “Faith-Anne and her husband will be here tomorrow, she had to find something to do with the baby. Although seeing as how quickly this should be over, she needn’t even bother really. Malia should be here any minute. Joseph, well, I wouldn’t care if he was in Hell wiping the devil’s ass to be quite honest with you, pardon my language.”

“How… vivid,” Zenthella managed.

Lucrita hummed a response that indicated that she knew Zenthella had spoken, even if she had no clue what her daughter had actually said. Lucrita continued to space out for a moment before rounding on Figaro. “I thought I told you to be in your real form?”

Zenthella began to protest, “Mother, I-”

“No, no.” Figaro gently nudged Zenthella to silence her. “You’re right, Madame Sandoute, my apologies.” With a quick bow he shifted back into a dog, the perfect image of obedience sitting beside his master.

Lucrita nodded absently, as if she only cared how Figaro looked for the sake of caring. “Ah yes. Decorum. Well, I’m going to be off in just a moment, but before I go.” Lucrita drew Zenthella in for a tight hug, letting out a small sigh. The large woman seemed sad all of a sudden, and she got very quiet. “I really love you Ellie. To the moon and back. Please call me more. You and Faith are all I have left. Before we all go home, I need to talk to you about something family related. Something important, mind you. Not quite the nonsense I usually spout. Nothing to worry yourself over now. Just don’t leave without speaking to me again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Zenthella said. “I love you too.”

“Alright then.” Lucrita smiled, her cheeks pulling and eyes lighting up. She smoothed her jacket and then was gone, meandering off through the crowd to her next target.

“Oh, Lucrita.” Figaro had shifted back the moment Madame Sandoute was gone. “How can someone with such a heavy drawl speak so fast? I can’t decide how I feel about her.”

“Neither can I,” Zenthella groaned. “Isn’t that so awful? My own mother, and I still can’t make up my mind about her.”

“She’s always been like this, as long as I’ve known you both.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t excuse anything. Like that time my door was removed? Or the mail reading?”

Figaro let out a small laugh. It wasn’t a happy memory, but it was sufficiently awkward enough that there wasn’t a whole lot else to do. “God bless her. When do we tell her about Charlie?”

“Oh drown me, I haven’t thought of that at all. And damn it, I’m even swearing like her!”

“Pardon you language,” Figaro smirked.

Zenthella frowned at the familiar. “Don’t make fun.”

“It’s a bad case you’ve got.”

“Tell me about it. So, how long until the Matriarch comes out, do you think?”

“The Matriarch? Mavetto will be out in about five minutes, tell us a lot of nothing, then we’ll have committee sessions tomorrow morning when we’ll actually get all the details.”

Zenthella closed her eyes and took a deep breath. One finger traced the hem of her sleeve, her other hand brushed Figaro’s for just a moment, just long enough to reconnect the two halves of herself. The touch was brief, but it served its purpose. Zenthella opened her eyes as she exhaled, and she looked around the room again. When she had first entered the marble hall, she had beelined to the glass sunroom. That was where Barley and Cecily usually liked to lounge and drink tea and talk politics. The funny thing was, Zenthella loved mortal, non-magi politics. Election season was like a sport to her. Witch politics, not so much. Cecily, however, was a goddess of maneuvering people and keeping her thumb in every pie imaginable. “We need to find Cecily and Barley,” Zenthella thought out loud.

“I’ll pop around and see if I can find them. Are we just leaving Charlie in the library?”

“It’s the easiest thing right now. The Master or Executive Librarian will have something to distract them until dinner.”

“Mother of the year right here.”

Zenthella scowled. “I’m not a mother. I’m Charlie’s guardian.”

“Yes, I forgot. Sorry about that.”

“Do we know who’ll be in our committee?”

“My guess? Sandoute, both Dappled and Rippled; Lovins, but only Tangelo and Currant; and McPhilister.”

“Cecily’s gonna pull some strings to get Tempered in there too.”

“I’ll pass that along when I find her.”

“Thank you, Figaro. I say this a lot, but I wouldn’t be able to get anything done without you.”

“I live to serve,” Figaro joked. “I should revert to move around, shouldn’t I?”

“You know how the traditionalists are,” Zenthella lamented. “You can get cozy in those ratty sweatpants you love when you sleep. Now shoo.” With a laugh Barber was off. Zenthella turned a few times, taking stock of where everyone was. No matter what her mother thought, this wouldn't be over in a few hours. This would take at least two days. Knowing the universe, probably three. That didn’t entirely phase Zenthella; she had work to do and finally had a good reason to be on the estate. Zenthella ducked into the glass porch, relishing the relative lack of a crowd as her thoughts kept spinning around her head. Charlie would like the library. She felt bad sending them off, she really did, but the library was undeniably cool. Figaro, Cecily, and Barley would all meet up with her either tonight or in the morning. Figaro was probably dead right about the committee group, and that suited Zenthella fine. She got along well with all those families. The Lovins were always agreeable, and all the McPhilisters would agree with Lucrita out of sheer respect for the older witch. Lots of witches forgot that behind the Southern charm and scattered personality, Lucrita was a fearsome illusionist and electromancer. Faith-Anne had inherited her mother’s gift with illusions, much to Zenthella’s chagrin, but Zenthella had gotten the electricity. The teenage years at the Sandoute house had been… interesting.

“You are Madame Dappled Zenthella Sandoute, yes?” A woman tugged on Zenthella’s sleeve, directing her attention. “My name is Mona Lisa Fauvert. I have heard quite a bit about you, Madame.” Zenthella took a moment to stare. Just one moment, but a moment nevertheless. Mona Lisa apparently had no sense of where she was at all. The witch wore, for lack of a better term, a little black dress, complete with a red lace collar and matching gloves. The woman’s heels were higher than the stoner Zenthella sometimes saw on her way to the supermarket. Her lips were red, the same red as the lace, and smiling in a way that suggested both enjoyment and curiosity; her eyes held that same curious expression. Lisa had eschewed every aspect of Coventium America’s dress code, so Zenthella knew her at once to be a visitor. With that in mind, Zenthella refocused on the conversation at hand.

“Thank you, Mona Lisa, but I am not the Madame Sandoute. That would be my mother Lucrita.”

“My apologies. I will need to talk to her soon then.” Lisa gave a large bow, her long hair framing her face. “I have only just arrived from Europe.” Zenthella made another mental note.

“Europe? From where within? My apologies as to the state of your Coventium.”

Lisa put up her hand as she rose. “The southern part of the continent. And it is nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things.”

“Nothing?” Zenthella didn’t want to tell another Coventium how to prioritize, but according to every report the damage was incredible; Coventium Europe had almost entirely been obliterated.

“Places and things are just that. Very few were hurt, and we suffered only minor casualties. Our Matriarch is now awake, although I dare say she almost wishes she were still asleep.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because we are trapped in interesting times. There is much work to be done.” Lisa smoothed the lace on her collar and tapped her toe. “I hate to make introductions and run, but I must be leaving. I hope to see you soon.” With another bow Lisa was off. Zenthella blinked a few times as the other witch left, just to make sure she was real and Zenthella wasn’t having a mental breakdown and had begun hallucinating. Mona Lisa didn’t seem real. She was named after a damn painting, wore makeup to the estate, and walked around as if those high heels meant nothing to her. She was just… unreal. Before Zenthella could think too hard on it, the enigma that was Miss Fauvert was quickly put on pause as a bell rang above the marble hall. Zenthella quickly pushed her way onto the floor, craning her neck up to see Mavetto. To everyone’s surprise, Matriarch Quixival stood on the balcony as well. Neither the witch nor her familiar were smiling.

“I require total, absolute silence,” Mavetto commanded. “I will only say this once. I have the utmost trust in your abilities to share this information person to person like a wildfire.” The familiar was silent, taking in the faces of the assembled witches. “You’ve all read your letters, informing you about the actions of the rogue agent in Florence. The Inertial Monks have declared war on Coventium Europe.” Zenthella could hear her heartbeat. “Coventium Europe is, understandably, at a disadvantageous position. They are requesting a promise of aid and support. I know I do not have to spell out all that this request implies.” Mavetto paused. “Or the consequences of our choices.” Someone’s teeth clicked together; the sound was like a thunderclap. “We will meet tomorrow in committees to discuss how to proceed. Committees will be posted in everyone’s dormitories. Dinner is in one hour. We are sorry for interrupting your afternoons.” The room was silent. Then, a sniff. Someone was crying. It wasn’t Zenthella. She knew that for a fact. Not yet. She would cry later, once the war was on her doorstep and her family was at risk. As for right now, every emotion seemed to have drained out of her. Zenthella felt like a shell. Barley was at her side. She wasn’t sure when he got there. He kept trying to shepherd her, as if she were a child. She wasn’t a child. She was fine.

“Zenthella.” That was her name, she dimly thought. “Come on. You’re staying overnight at the estate, at least for the first night.” Barley put a hand on her shoulder and moved her to the side. He was looking at her like she was pathetic. It made Zenthella burn. But not burn hot enough to do anything. So she just stood there and let herself be shepherded. Maybe she wasn’t as fine as she thought. Barley led her to the Sandoute rooms. Figaro was already inside, and he pulled her into a hug.

“We’re going to war,” Zenthella whispered as she pulled away. She sat down on the couch as her friends found various seats.

“It’s looked this way for a month now,” Barley said gently.

“But it’s going to mean war. I don’t… I don’t know what this means.” Zenthella looked around the room. “Where’s Charlie? They’ll need to hear it from me.”

“We’re not at war yet,” Cecily gently reminded everyone. “We’re going to go to committee to figure out if we aid Coventium Europe in their struggle.”

“Please,” Zenthella snorted. “Europe couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag. The Matriarch has probably already made up her mind to assist them. And the monks will instantly put anyone who helps their enemy on a hitlist.” Zenthella was quiet for a moment. “Cecily, you’ve heard my… theory? About the...”

“Yeah,” the familiar breathed. Zenthella needn’t finish her sentence.

“Then tell me why any possibility of fighting with the monks shouldn’t terrify me?”

“Because theories and conjecture are just that. Because nothing is set in stone,” Barley firmly said. He rose, patting Zenthella’s shoulder. “And because we’ve fought the monks before and won. And because the fighting will most likely be political in nature.”

“We didn’t win last time, we compromised. We-” Zenthella was cut off by a knock at the door. She gestured for Figaro to open it, and was surprised to see both her sister and Charlie standing side by side.

“Zen, what’s happening?” Charlie’s voice was uncertain, but not yet scared.

“El,” Faith-Anne whispered at the same time.

Zenthella was truly prodigious in few things, but she was a master of putting on a brave face. “Long story short,” Zenthella said, rising, “the Grand Order of Inertial Monks has declared war on Coventium Europe. Matriarch Belladonna has requested that Quixival provide aid to Coventium Europe. We’re going to go to committee to figure this out tomorrow.”

“Oh, drown me.” Faith put a hand over her heart. “Figaro, it’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Faith.”

“Tempered Barley Willix, you’re looking well.”

“Thank you, Dappled Faith-Anne Sandoute. You look equally splendid,” Barley said with a small bow. “But please, let’s drop the formalities.” Faith-Anne let a smile glimmer in her eye before turning to Zenthella.

“Oh, Zenthella.” Faith-Anne pulled her sister into a crushing hug. “How’s mother?”

“Doing what she always does. Making everything alright by bulldozing her way through life.”

“Sounds like her. ”

“Is Coulson coming? I know he had to do something with the baby.”

“Oh,” Faith said with a wave. “He’s just going to stay at home and mind the little one. He’s not interested in our politics. Susanna will duck in and out to keep us updated with one another.” Faith paused a moment to allow Figaro his obligatory snort at Susanna’s name. Figaro shot a glance at Cecily, seemingly had a silent conversation, and the two exited the room. “Anyways,” the witch continued, “you said we’re going to committee? I imagine we’ll have Rippled, Tangelo and Currant Lovins, and Montpaisse.”

“McPhilister, not Montpaisse,” Zenthella said with a sigh.

Faith’s eyebrow arched. “We know already?”

“No,” Figaro supplied, “but it’s more likely we’ll be with McPhilister. The Montpaisse families are always put with the branches of Kurtz and Lopez.” Faith Anne considered, then nodded. “Is the Michaels family still relevant to this sort of thing?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Zenthella said sharply. “So far the only families I know of are both Sandoute factions; Willix; two of the Lovins, Tangelo and Currant; the McPhilisters, but only Hawkins; the Montpaisse family; all three branches of Kurtz; Raquince and Donna Lopez; and one solitary woman representing the Mona Fauvert. I don’t know about Kalah, Sanchez, Mortimer, Gonzales, Dalton, Flowers, or Phabian yet.”

“That’s not nearly everyone,” Barley interjected. “All the major North American families are going to be represented, repeatedly in some cases,” he said with a gesture to the two Sandoutes. “Don’t forget about all the South American families. And no,” he said to Faith, “Michaels is no longer a major player. I checked with Mavetto earlier. The Flowers took that seat at the table.”

“God bless,” Zenthella muttered.

Figaro and Cecily walked in with plates of food, having left for the kitchen. Politics fell away immediately in the face of food. Everyone murmured appreciation for the familiars, then delight as they smelled the food before them. Whoever was cooking tonight was talented. The plates were passed around as everyone found a place to sit. The conversation drifted away from politics, to everyone’s pleasure, and soon there was laughter. And for a while that was enough.


	9. Talk Politics to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witches struggle to reach a decision about the issue facing them, and Zenthella takes a quick break.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a two-faced, halftime whore of a bitch warmonger, people would be more willing to pretend to care about what you have to say!”

Zenthella took a deep breath before firing back. “Alvin, when God let you choose between your brain or your balls, you must’ve chose wrong. At least you’re confidently blowing all that hot air.” They were only an hour into committee and things were less than productive. Sir Hawkins Alvin McPhilister was seated across the table from Zenthella, glaring at the woman presumptuous enough to actually shout back at him.

“Are we perhaps more concerned by the financial aspect of war?” The current speaker, Currant Damian Lovins, was growing more and more unhelpful by the minute. The Tangelo Lovins had been swapped out of the meeting in favor of Miss Mona Lisa Fauvert, much to Zenthella’s dismay. The Lovins family was incredibly mellow as a whole, but Tangelos were at least always upbeat. Lisa, for the most part, sat there and took notes on the debate. She would occasionally rise and say something succinctly European, but for the most part was capitally unhelpful.

“No,” Rippled Malia Sandoute said, “we are, perhaps, concerned more about the social ramifications.”

Zenthella was getting a headache. “Can we just all agree that there will be ramifications?”

“Not if we don’t go to war in the first place,” Alvin all but screamed.

“It’s not war,” Malia countered, “just aid.”

“It’s all but war,” Damian muttered.

As Lisa stood and began another long spiel about compassion and how aid is not war, Zenthella reflected on her day so far. She had dropped Charlie off at the library so that Helen, the Executive Librarian, could teach them some fencing basics. There was no point in Charlie having that colichemarde if they couldn’t use it. They didn’t seem upset that Zenthella was effectively dumping them on someone else though, so that was a plus. Figaro had been in dog form all day, something he was quietly suffering through, and was at Zenthella’s feet even now. Zenthella knew Susanna had arrived sometime last night, but she didn’t think that either familiar had seen each other yet. Zenthella wanted to be there when the reunion occurred. Well, she said that now. She was sure she’d want to be anywhere else once the arguing began in earnest. To top it all off, Zenthella desperately needed to pop her back.

“... and that is why the donation of at least two and a half million US dollars is essential to our continued existence.” Lisa flashed a glittery and all together too-toothy smile as her speech continued to drag on and on. “As to my earlier point, the donation of four cow herds, I believe…” Zenthella allowed herself to zone back out. This wasn’t working.

The Coventium’s preferred way of dealing with major issues was simple. The most prominent families in the Coventium America were summoned to the estate. The families would be divided up into committees, and those committees would hash out the problem and come to a consensus. Then, each committee would present their outcome to the Matriarch, and the Matriarch and her familiar would make a decision based on the committee’s results. This tried and true process had fallen apart immediately when virtually none of the major South American families responded to the summons. They simply would not come and risk the consequences. Zenthella almost admired them, but their actions just created a bigger mess here. Sooner or later, Mavetto and the Matriarch were going to have to accept the fact that not every issue could be settled by committee. Some issues were too complex and nuanced to be settled by a mere referendum. Lisa wasn’t going to back off; she wanted to send aid. Alvin was similarly obstinate in his belief that Coventium America should stay well out of it. Everyone else fell somewhere in the middle, creating one big, beautiful stalemate.

“This is going well,” Barley whispered into Zenthella’s ear. “You almost look like you don’t want to kill everyone in this room.”

“I’m going to tear my hair out,” Zenthella whispered back. “These aren’t quite the people I expected to be dealing with.” Indeed, Zenthella’s guess last night as to her committee’s composition had almost been right. Almost. Tangelo had been swapped for Mona. Zenthella had been dead on the money for Hawkins Alvin McPhilister, but Lucrita had been isolated from the rest of the Sandoutes, making Alvin a loose cannon. Faith-Anne had been separated too, which was both a good and bad thing. Cecily had managed to get Barley and herself added, and that was a plus, but neither of them were making any real progress. The final member of their committee was Sir Nordu Pierre Silva, one of the few South American families to actually come to the meeting. Zenthella had no doubt that the rest of the Argentine family was here only because Sir Silva forced them to be. It made her wonder how productive they were being in their respective committees.

“Step out for a moment,” Barley advised. “I can support Malia as needed. Although, she seems to be doing a rather fine job on her own.”

“Uncle Joseph doesn’t raise pushovers,” Zenthella said grimly. “I’m going to run by the library and check on Charlie. And get out of this room. Do you want me to bring you back any food or something to drink?”

“A muffin, if possible.” Barley patted Zenthella’s knee. “But don't rush. Take some time out of committee to de-stress. For our safety.” Zenthella was only half sure that last part had been a joke. Zenthella wordlessly slipped from the room with Barber at her heels. Closing the door behind her, Zenthella let her head rest against the wall.

“You can change back, Fig. No need for formality here.”

Barber nodded, seamlessly growing into Figaro’s usual shape. “What’re you up to? You have that look.”

“I don’t have a look,” Zenthella protested.

“Zen. I’ve been hanging around you since you were eighteen years old. You definitely have a look when you’re up to something.”

“I’m going to the library,” Zenthella admitted.

“That’s not anything particularly exciting.”

“Charlie’s there.”

“And?”

“And I’m researching some very specific types of magic.”

“Ah. Do you need me to accompany you, or will the apprentice librarians suffice?”

“I’ll be fine, you try not to pick a fight with Susanna.”

“I’d have to see her first, but no promises,” Figaro quipped as he walked down the hall. “Call me if you need me.” Zenthella turned on her heel and began to walk east, to the library.

Through her life, entirely too many people had told Zenthella that she walked too fast. Some people blamed it on her long legs, others said that she was simply inconsiderate. Figaro knew, of course, if only because he knew Zenthella as intrinsically as she knew herself. But outside of her immediate family, only one other person knew why Zenthella walked with such an intense pace. The answer was almost comically simple: Zenthella hated to waste time. She liked to move with purpose and get to the point. She would never be the type to stop and smell the roses. Right now especially, Zenthella had a reason to walk with purpose. Taking the carpeted steps two at a time, Zenthella strode into the library.

The moment Zenthella crossed the threshold, Andrew looked up from where he was sorting books into the stacks. “Ah, Dappled Zenthella. How may I help you today?”

“I’m fine for now, Andrew.” Zenthella was consistently unnerved by how the librarians seemed to sense people entering the library. She was sure that there was no way Andrew had seen or heard her enter, but she wasn’t quite brave enough to ask how they knew.

“Oh. Well, if you need anything, Helen’s out in the courtyard. So call for me or Ella. I guess you could try for the Master Librarian, but you probably wouldn’t get a response. So just ask me or Ella if you need help.” Zenthella nodded, but by then Andrew had turned back to his work. Ella was nowhere to be seen, meaning she was probably down in the Archives. Something outside caught Zenthella’s eye, and Zenthella felt her heart momentarily stop as she moved to the great glass window to look outside. Helen was fencing Charlie. No, Helen was full on dueling Charlie. Zenthella could see Helen’s mouth moving, presumably teaching the witchling how to properly use their colichemarde. Zenthella knew Charlie would be learning from Helen today, but she hadn’t expected this intensity.

“They’re something, aren’t they?” Ella had appeared at Zenthella’s shoulder, looking at the dueling pair.

“They as in the two, or they as in Charlie?”

“Charlie,” the apprentice said with a smile. “Does that mix up happen with you a lot?”

“Honestly, not as often as you would think. But yes, Charlie’s quite something. Talented young witchling. I have no doubts they’ll do good work once they come of age, if they ever get comfortable with using their magic.”

“They don’t like to use their magic?”

“A colichemarde is a remarkably practical weapon in a conflict, but not quite the sort of thing you can pull out in a Walmart. They’re limiting themselves.”

Ella was quiet for a while as she thought of what next to say. “Will they take your name?”

“I-” Zenthella clenched her teeth. The question of Charlie taking her name had been rolling around her head for over a month now. Charlie didn’t have a last name that anyone knew of, let alone a family name, and Charlie wasn’t even their true given name. “We’re working on it,” Zenthella said. “I haven’t even introduced Charlie to my mother yet, and she’ll definitely have some opinions. We’ll figure out what to do. In the meantime, I need to consult the stacks.”

“Oh, alright. Let me know if I can help.” Zenthella politely thanked the apprentice librarian and moved over to the stacks. If she was being honest, Zenthella didn’t really know where she wanted to begin. Hoping for the best, she pulled  _ The Theories of Thought: How We Learn, Think, and Remember _ . The book was dense, but hopefully not unbearably so. Zenthella filed the card at Helen’s desk and sat down at a table, pulling a small notebook from her purse. Scanning the table of contents, Zenthella jotted down the chapters that looked most relevant. Zenthella moved back to the stacks, picking out  _ Caring for Aging Witches _ and  _ Pasts Untold _ . Three was a good number, she thought. There would be something here. Taking notes along the way, Zenthella carefully read and re-read the first two chapters of  _ Pasts Untold _ before glancing up at a clock.

“Damn,” Zenthella whispered to herself. She had been gone for too long. “Figaro, to my side.” A portal blinked to life in front of Zenthella, but Figaro did not emerge. “Figaro,” Zenthella repeated, feeling a sigil blaze at the back of her neck. “To my side.” With her second pull, the familiar stepped out of the portal.

“You summoned me? What’s up?”

“What took you so  long?”

“Portals are tight within the estate,” Figaro said with a shrug. “We’re not exactly all here for innocuous reasons. It’s a security thing.”

“I didn’t know familiars could be regulated like that.”

“Zen, I can be regulated however witches like. It’s all witches do.” The two were silent for a second as they tried to assign weight to Figaro’s words. It was no secret that familiars were not afforded the privileges witches enjoyed. But it was not as if familiars were chattel, they enjoyed freedoms. In any case, it wasn’t something to dwell upon for too long.

“Fig, take these books back home. Take your time, grab anything you need or think I need.”

“Yeah.” Something had changed, something in his posture or tone, but he took the books.

“Fig.”

“I’ll be back, don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t…” Zenthella didn’t understand why he got like this. Why he closed off, why he got fickle. Fickle Figaro, they used to call him. Apparently he hadn’t grown out of the moniker. “We can talk about it more later. Thank you, Figaro.”

“My pleasure.” With a blink of light he was gone.

Zenthella let herself stand alone for a moment before speaking again. “Ella, Andrew?” Both apprentices were there within a minute. “I don’t know how old you two are, but you both look like you’ll be having familiars soon. I don’t usually dole out advice like some cliche candywoman, but a word of warning: they’re just like you.” Fortifying herself, Zenthella left the library and headed back to committee. There couldn’t be much time left to debate. In her haste to exit though, Zenthella nearly plowed over another witch.

“My apologies,” the woman muttered. She seemed familiar, Zenthella thought, but she couldn’t place exactly where she knew the stranger.

“No, I was the one in a hurry.” Zenthella held the woman’s shoulder as she straightened, trying to make eye contact. “Pardon me, but what family are you a part of?”

“Roxanna,” the woman replied. “My mother is Roxanna Paulette Dalton.” The woman looked up then, sad brown eyes watching Zenthella.

“I should have known. You have the same hair.” Indeed, the entire Roxanna family had inky black hair that fell down to their waists. “I hate to bump and run, but I have to get back to my committee. Good day.” Zenthella hurried then, truly late, and it never did occur to her that she didn’t ever catch the other witch’s name.

 

“...which is why we must salvage at least eighty four percent of the North American bee population by 2030 to ensure the perpetuation of Coventium Australia. And truly, aren’t they our strongest allies?” Zenthella had been waiting at the door for Lisa to stop speaking, and the moment the witch paused for breath she slipped in as fast as she could, hoping to go unnoticed. “Ah, Dappled Zenthella! Where have you been?”

“The library,” Zenthella said. She obviously hadn’t been as covert as she had hoped.

“Ah,” Lisa sighed, “How I love a library. I was a librarian at the Coventium Europe, actually, before the whole mess across the pond. Anywho. We’ve come to a decision, in your absence.” Zenthella shot a look at Barley, but it went unnoticed. He was turned towards Malia, both talking very quickly and very quietly. “Dappled Zenthella Sandoute, this committee has decided to aid Coventium Europe in their fight against the Inertial Monks!”

“Alright.”

“Is this not exciting?”

“No,” Zenthella admitted, “it’s terrifying. But we’ll see what the other committees have to say, and we’ll work on it from there.”

Mona Lisa rose, lips pulled in a slight frown. “You do not wish to aid your sisters and brothers?”

“I would love to aid them,” Zenthella said, “but I would also love to not live under the risk of being dragged from my home and harmed.”

“Surely,” Lisa laughed, “that would not happen.”

“Surely,” Zenthella said as she stood, “you are a fool.” And with that, Zenthella left the room. It had been quite a day.


	10. Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Coventium meeting comes to a close, and Lucrita demonstrates some truly terrible timing.

“Bitch.”

“Man-whore.”

“Man-whore?”

“Yeah! Man-whore!”

“I think you’ve used that one on me before.”

“Like you’ve never called me a bitch before today. Hell, Figaro, I think you’ve called me a bitch twice in this conversation alone.”

“Some things are tried and true, like vanilla ice cream.”

“You’re as frigid.”

“You’re as hideously pale.”

“Something we have in common, I’m afraid.”

“Impossible,” Figaro declared. “My beauty far exceeds yours.”

“You call that hair beautiful?”

“I call it better than that rat’s nest you have going on.”

Susanna let out a horrified gasp, a hand flying to her head. “My hair is  _ cute _ ,” she all but screamed. “It is jaunty! And fun!”

“Unlike this exchange,” Zenthella murmured to Faith-Anne. Figaro and Susanna almost hadn’t seen each other. They had been so, so close. Susanna had been giving Faith an update on Coulson and the baby, and was preparing to step back out when Fiago portaled in. The bickering had started immediately, and had been going strong for just about ten minutes.

“Susanna. Figaro.” Faith’s voice cut through the bickering like a knife. “Thank you,” she said as they both fell into a reproachful silence. “Don’t you both have things to do? I know for a fact that you do, Susanna.”

Susanna smirked, hip-checking Figaro. “Yes, but how I can resist taking a jab or two at this garbage pile? He makes it so easy.”

“Well, I know thinking too hard isn’t your strong suit, so I do try to help,” Figaro said with mock kindness.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Language,” both witches said in unison.

“Where did your familiar learn to swear like that,” Zenthella teased.

“I haven’t a fucking clue,” Faith-Anne said, placing a hand over her heart and reclining on the couch. “I’ll have to have a word with Coulson when I go home. We don’t want April learning such words, now do we?”

“Of course not,” Zenthella laughed. “Speaking of though, when do we go home? Surely we’re almost done?”

“We’re just waiting for the Matriarch to decide what to do now,” Figaro supplied. “Every committee’s turned in its suggestions, and Quixival and Mavetto are deciding what to do.”

“How I love to wait,” Zenthella griped.

“Don’t fret, I’m sure we’ll hear soon enough.”

“I’m not fretting.”

“Zen,” Figaro laughed, “you’re absolutely fretting. Look at your nails.” Zenthella glanced down, finally noticing how her thumbnail kept picking at the polish on her other fingers.

“Oh,” Zenthella said. “I may be fretting a little. I just want to stop waiting. I need to know what to do, and none of us have any power right now. And I hate it.”

Faith-Anne soothingly rubbed her older sister’s arm. “I know, but El, you’re just stressing out the rest of us. So chill.”

Lucrita blew into the room, knocking as she entered. “Ellie dear, are you stressed? I simply couldn’t help but overhear your conversation from outside as I happened to pass by. You were always such an anxious child, I would have thought you had outgrown this by now.”

“I’m fine, mother.” Zenthella’s tone was bone dry, but the older witch paid it no mind. This wasn’t the time for the Madame Sandoute’s antics.

“Oh,” Lucrita gasped, registering her other daughter’s presence after a brief delay. “Faith-Anne! I’m so glad to finally see you! Have you been hiding from me these past days? Oh, give me a hug!” There was a great deal of hugging and squealing on Lucrita’s part, evenly matched to Faith’s gentle yet firm attempts to escape her mother’s crushing embrace. “Now girls,” Lucrita said, using the same tone she had employed when her daughters had been six years old, “I have something I need to talk to you two about. Ellie, I mentioned this to you when I saw you on the first day, and now’s as good as time as ever, especially with the both of you here.” Lucrita smoothed her coat and ran a hand through her hair. “I am relinquishing the title of Madame Sandoute. Or I want to, at least, and am dead set upon doing so.”

Zenthella blinked, starting a little. “What?”

Faith-Anne wore a similar look of confusion. “Will Uncle Joseph take the Sir title?”

“Ah.” Lucrita wrung her hands, something akin to embarrassment contorting her face. “I want Zenthella to take the Madame title.”

“What,” Zenthella repeated, her tongue suddenly feeling heavy in her mouth.

Luckily, Faith-Anne was there to finish her thought. “The fuck?”

“Language,” both familiars chimed from the back of the room.

“I know it’s a lot all at once,” Lucrita admitted, still wringing her hands, “but I think it’s best for the family.”

“Mother, Uncle Joseph is older than you. With all due respect, you shouldn’t have had the Madame title to begin with.”

“I am a better witch than my brother.” Lucrita stared down her daughter, daring her to keep pushing that particular avenue of discussion. “I claimed the title because I could, and because it was better for the family. As is my decision now.”

“But Mother, Faith-Anne is a better witch than I am.” Zenthella rolled her eyes at the look her sister gave her. “Shut up, yes you are. You can do things with magic that I can only read about. By your own logic, Mother, she should take the Madame title if you’re dead set on giving it up.”

“But you are more powerful,” Lucrita said gently. “And right now we need a powerful woman at the helm. Not a loose cannon in Sir Rippled Joseph Sandoute, nor a talented but weak leader in Madame Dappled Faith-Anne Sandoute. Don’t give me that look darling, you know it to be true.” Faith-Anne had sat back down, hand covering her mouth. “I’m not saying this to be hurtful, I’m saying it because I’m right. Zenthella is the most powerful witch in our family. If she challenged any of us for the Madame title, she would easily win despite her abysmal dueling skills, fracturing the family in the process. It is better to give the title now to save any unnecessary fighting, and then have someone capable during the… unpleasantness, with the Inertial Monks. We need Madame Dappled Zenthella Sandoute.”

“Mother, is that what this is all about?” Faith-Anne looked up from her seat, shrugging Susanna’s hand off her shoulder. “You’re just trying to get your ducks in a row for the war that we’re not even sure is going to happen? How are you being so short sighted? You’re never like this! Uncle Joseph will challenge her. There’s no question about it. Malia is older than both of us, she may challenge it too. I myself have half a mind to challenge it! You’ve thrown everything out the window for what?”

“A chance. An insurance policy, if you will.” Lucrita’s tone was calm and steady, but she was born with expressive Sandoute eyes. In that moment, Lucrita’s eyes showed fear, and pain, and shame.

Figaro stepped towards the center of the room, trying to think of some way to diffuse some of the rapidly building tension.“I think this is something-”

“Figaro.” Zenthella’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “I command you to your true form. Immediately.” Zenthella purposely looked at the ground as her familiar shifted. She couldn’t deal with the hurt look he had undoubtedly given her. “What will become of the Sandoute Manor House?”

“The house has been neglected in the past few years, to say the least. And I’ll take the fault for that. I moved out, to a condo in Florida no less, and I let it fall into minor disrepair. I know, shame on me.” Lucrita’s mouth twitched, no doubt taking stock of the various issues with the house. “But I don’t think there’s anything at the house that can’t be spruced up in a day or two with some clever spells. Plus, with the whole unpleasant business, it would be good to have a Sandoute sitting in Renville. You know, there’s a-”

“Yes, we know.” Zenthella held up a finger, silencing her mother. Normally such a thing would be unthinkable, but these were extraordinary circumstances. Zenthella had been working this out on her own, and had noticed several holes in her mother’s plan. “So let me get this straight. I am to take a title I don’t deserve or particularly want, out of turn, in preparation for a conflict that may not happen? I am then to uproot my life from New Chora, move back to Renville, repair the family home, and then sit tight and lead the family, dealing with all the bullshit witch bureaucracy and baggage that the title carries with it? For the rest of my life?”

“Yes! You’ve grossly oversimplified and twisted it with your bad attitude, but yes.” Lucrita broke into a smile before fully taking in her daughter’s frown. “It’s not like leading the family would be too hard, I’ll still be around to help.”

“Then why don’t you just keep the title if you’re going to lead the family anyway?” Zenthella didn’t mean to shout, but the words sprang from her mouth louder than intended. She found she really didn’t care. “Why should I do this? This is a bad idea!”

Whatever Lucrita was about to say was cut off by a knock at the door. Susanna graciously went to answer the door, greeting Barley as he entered the room.

“Mavetto’s called everyone to the reception hall,” Barley said gravely. “Decision time.” Susanna nodded, shifting into her dog form to match Figaro. Decorum, after all, mattered in times like these. Zenthella and Faith-Anne secured their headbands, wiped the emotion of the previous conversation off their faces, and strode out with their mother to face the decisions of the Matriarch.

Witches were silent as they entered the marble reception hall; everyone was waiting with bated breath for Mavetto to announce the Coventium’s decision. “Surely Quixival had decided ages ago, and this was all a formality,” Zenthella heard someone whisper. If she craned her neck, Zenthella could see Charlie standing with the library staff. She hoped they had gained something out of these days on the estate, by the looks of it they had at least gained friends.

From the balcony, Mavetto cleared his throat. The already silent hall seemed to get impossibly quieter as everyone prepared for the next words. “You all know the issue on the table. Hopefully, your various committees gave you a chance to express your beliefs and ideas to one another and formulate a ideal solution. The Matriarch Quixival and I have sifted through the committee proposals, thought long and hard about our courses of actions, projected timelines for any and all consequences, and we have come to a conclusion. This will upset some of you, make some of you happy, and leave many of you somewhere in the middle. That is how much of life goes, and I’m sure by now most of you know that.” Mavetto paused, if only so he could say the next line with a full breath. “The Coventium America will provide limited aid to the Coventium Europe in their time of need. However, the aid will be purely financial, and intended primarily for the restoration of their estate. After sending the aid, the Coventium America is going to officially isolate from the rest of the Coventium Network until this is resolved, or until our hand is forced. Unofficially, volunteer witches will slip out to Europe to help as needed. Unquestionably, there will be a continent wide hunt for the rogue agent should he ever step foot on these lands, followed by a swift trial and in all likelihood, an execution soon thereafter.” If Mavetto was affected by the thundering crowd below him, he gave no indication. Every witch in the hall had devolved into noise, each expressing their personal dissatisfaction with the plan. A hand was firmly planted on Zenthella’s shoulder blade, moving her out of the way, and as Zenthella looked up she saw Lisa storming towards the balcony.

“Charlie!” Zenthella pushed through the crowd, taking the witchling by the shoulder and steering them back to her waiting familiar. “We’re getting out of here,” Zenthella shouted over the din. Figaro retook human form, seeing as how no one cared about familiar presentation at this point, and Zenthella’s brood resolutely pushed through the crowd, through the glass doors, past the five pillars, and onto the lawn. With a pop Figaro opened a portal, and within seconds everyone was planted in a comfortable chair in Zenthella’s apartment.

“I had a pretty good weekend,” Charlie said conversationally. “But I’m going to need a lot of explaining to really understand what just happened.”

“Me too, kiddo.” Zenthella massaged her temples before standing up to go digging in the kitchen. It was time for alcohol.


	11. Post Office

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zenthella and Co. are being absolutely bombarded with information and paper and they're getting sick of it.

Figaro usually hated getting mail. Normal mail was boring: bills and petitions and the like. But honestly, Figaro would rather have all the boring mail in the world than the flood of paper attacking his home. Wolfgang had initiated this calligraphed hell, arriving one day with a letter from Zenthella’s mother. The old familiar hadn’t really said much; he greeted Zenthella cordially, offered Charlie a curt nod, and more or less ignored Figaro. That was fine. Wolfgang wasn’t really anything more than an acquaintance. Lucrita’s familiar had taken his leave as soon as his letter was safely delivered, meaning he missed out on Zenthella’s assorted grumbles and swears as she opened and read the letter.

“It’s a series of half apologies,” Zenthella said out loud, eyes still on the paper. “She doesn’t really know what she’s apologizing for, because in her mind she didn’t ever do anything wrong.”

“It’s good that she’s trying to reach out though,” Figaro offered.

“Yeah. But we both know she’s only doing this to try to ease me into the Madame position.”

“Well.” Figaro shrugged. “At least she apologized.”

“Half apologized.”

“Better than nothing.” Zenthella shrugged, only half accepting her familiar’s words. 

 

Zenthella couldn’t possibly have anticipated that her mother’s half-apology letter would be her favorite piece of postage to arrive that week. But, upon the arrival of the next letter, Zenthella nearly wished that it was her mother’s neat scrawl on the front of the envelope.

“To the home of Miss Dappled Zenthella Sandoute and brood,” Zenthella read aloud. “Oh god, it was postmarked in Veracruz, with the return address Fauvert. What does she want?”

“Mona Lisa?” Charlie piped up from their stool at the kitchen table, pausing only briefly before returning to liberally applying jam to their toast.

“Yes.” Zenthella ran her finger through the seal, letting out a sigh as the paper tore unevenly. She really should have invested in a letter opener at some point along the way.

“Dearest Dappled Zenthella, and to any and all other Sandoutes who may be concerned.”

“Zen, maybe drop the accent?”

“Are you perhaps implying my impression of Miss Fauvert is somehow inaccurate?” The witchling’s mouth, full of toast, wisely stayed shut as Zenthella stared them down. Zenthella did read the rest of the letter in her normal voice, however. “As the Coventium America carries out its policies as decided on by the council of committees, I have found myself in a bit of a predicament. My original plan was to only be in America for a short while before returning to my Coventium-” Zenthella groaned aloud, “but I may have to spend more time here than anticipated. Should the need ever arise, may I find shelter in your home?” Zenthella groaned again. “I would never want to impose on you; you are of course free to say no, and I would never arrive unannounced. But it would greatly please me to know that my friend’s door is open should the need ever arise. Many thanks, Mona Lisa Fauvert.”

“She’s so nice,” Charlie commented. “And pretty.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want her staying here.”

“Then tell her no. She said you could.”

“Oh, Charlie. Adults like to give each other the illusion of choice with stuff like this. It makes us feel better about the fact that we’re basically forcing ourselves on others because we know they won’t say no.”

“Really?”

“Mostly.”

Charlie blinked up at her. “So you’re just being dramatic?”

Zenthella gritted her teeth. “Somewhat. I can’t really say no to her though. It would be bad politics. And if Lucrita is serious about my taking the Madame title, I can’t afford to bungle something this small up so quickly.”

“I still need to meet your mom, you know.”

“I know,” Zenthella sighed, “it’s somewhere on my to-do list.”

“If you say so,” Charlie said with a shrug. “Oh, before I forget, Davie sent me an email asking if I could go over to his house one night and stay over. Is that alright with you?”

Zenthella drummed her fingers, trying to figure out the right answer. On one hand, it wasn’t as if Charlie wasn’t autonomous. They were more than capable of making their own choices. On the other hand though, didn’t parents usually coordinate these things above the children’s heads? It had been a long while since Zenthella had been to a sleepover. “That should be fine,” she said tentatively, “but I need to work it out with Davie’s parents. That sort of thing.”

“Cool,” Charlie said simply.

 

The next letter to arrive was anything but cool. The envelope was black, and postmarked with both Veracruz and Arroyo, Puerto Rico. Figaro opened it with a slash of his finger, face contorting as he read the letter.

“The Casa del Arbol has burned down,” the familiar announced. “Right now nothing can be proved, but foul play is suspected.”

“Is everyone alright?”

Figaro reread the letter. “Yes, everyone was out of the house at the time. Mitro Christian was heading back from dinner at a friend’s home and saw the smoke.”

“Thank God.” Zenthella rubbed her thumbs together for a moment, taking a second just to be glad that everyone was okay. Christian and his wife had kids. Zenthella needed the children, more than anything, to be okay. “Monks?”

“Probably. There’s no sign of any origin for the fire, suggesting magic.”

“Damn.”

“Lucrita’ll write soon. She’ll want to get Sandoute Manor back up to snuff to make sure we’re not next.”

“The monks wouldn’t be so stupid as to try something like that twice.”

“Probably, but do you want to take chances?” Zenthella’s mouth formed a tight line at Figaro’s words, and nothing else was said on the matter.

 

Surprisingly, Charlie received the next letter. “It’s from my friends at the library!” they exclaimed. Eagerly reading through the letter, their smile just got bigger and bigger. “They’re going to get to go on an excursion outside of the estate! They planned it and everything, they’re going to be studying the Alchemical Compact, whatever that is.”

“The agreement that terminated the alchemists,” Figaro bitterly offered.

Charlie looked up, not sure how to interpret Figaro’s words. “Terminated?”

“Terminated,” Zenthella confirmed, “should they not destroy their work and renounce the magic form.”

“Oh.” Charlie returned to the letter, enthusiasm only slightly tapered. “Ella’s going to craft her familiar before she goes, it says. Andrew’s still too young for one, but Ella turned eighteen a while ago and has just been putting it off. And they’re going with Madame Dignity Noor Kalah.”

“Noor’s a good woman,” Zenthella said. “She’ll do right by the kids.”

“I’m glad your nerd friends are getting let outside of the enclosure,” Figaro said, ruffling Charlie’s hair as he went into the kitchen.

“They’re not nerds,” Charlie protested. “They’re librarians.”

“They’re studying the second most important piece of magic law for  _ fun _ . Not even the big one that everyone knows about. Only nerds would do that, it’s like studying the Articles of Confederation when the Constitution is right there for the taking.”

“Wait, I don’t know anything about any of it. If it’s all important, shouldn’t I know about this?”

“Ah,” Zenthella guiltily interjected. “I’ve been putting politics off in our lessons on purpose. I didn’t want to just inundate you with all this boring jargon and overwhelm you with it, but in hindsight I probably should have done this sooner so you have a grasp on what’s going on with the whole Inertial Monk situation.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, crossing their arms. “It would be kinda nice if I actually understood what’s going on around me.”

“Tone,” Zenthella said mildly. Charlie’s mouth quirked in apology, which she accepted with a nod of her head. “Long story short, because we can get more into this later, there are three major bodies of magical law. There’s this super dull, very long book of a thing called the  _ Magi Governances  _ that discusses how the Coventiums and state governments interplay to fairly regulate and legislate upon witches. It’s like a million pages, and it’s important mainly because it’s so mundane. Then there’s the Alchemical Compact, or the AC, which was the elimination of alchemy. Basically what happened there was the Grand Order of Inertial Shitheads said that alchemy was bad and needed to be abolished because it disturbed the natural order of the world. Some witches agreed, some disagreed. Eventually it got worked out though so that alchemy as a magical subsection was banned-”

Charlie, to their credit, raised their hand before interrupting. “Like necromancy?”

“It was less severe than necromancy, but-”

Figaro didn’t raise his hand, but he did politely cough before interrupting. “No, it’s on the same level as necromancy. Concerns over the Elixir classified alchemy as a magic that disturbed Life and Death.”

“If I could get through my sentence please,” Zenthella said with a sigh. “Thank you, Figaro. Anyways. Alchemy is banned, but that doesn’t really matter because all the alchemists are dead now, and it’s officially been declared a lost art.”

Charlie’s jaw dropped. “Because of the law?”

“No, no. Well. Maybe? The law didn’t provide for the killing of alchemists. That was never the intention. But not too long after it was passed, alchemists started turning up dead. There was never a proven connection, but many people believe that A caused B. We don’t know if the monks did it, and even if they did it was technically in their power to do. Whatever happened, there are no more true alchemists in the world anymore. There are barely any fake ones.”

“And the third piece of law?”

“The Seventh Day Accords,” Zenthella said, as if the words themselves were holy or prophetic. “There’s nothing else like it. After Adaline was hunted and killed, it was just a bloodbath. Witches and Monks were literally destroying cities trying to avenge their fallen comrades. Adaline didn’t go down without a fight you see, the story says she killed half the Order when backed to a river. Then she was murdered, her body burned, her artifacts stolen, and everyone was all pissed off because Adaline still won; whatever it was that she stole eluded the monks. So it was carnage, until Matriarch Alyss and Arch Sophisticate Petrikov sat down and formed their famous ‘Ceaseless Peace.’ It’s the premiere witch law. It provides for witch and monk truces, how to declare and end war, it discusses other planes of existence, suggests the existence of Heaven and Hell, all of it. It also talks a lot about Rogue Agents, someone who is unbound, and, at that time especially, dangerous. That’s what happened here and now, you see. A witch went and broke several of the Accords’ provisions, and the monks demanded we hand them over. Problem is, we don’t know who the agent is. Except we do, but we technically aren’t supposed to know it’s Hugo. But that’s why we have Lisa. She carries information back and forth from Coventium Europe for us.”

“Why not use a familiar?” Charlie’s question was met with a guilty, formless silence from the witch and her familiar. Quickly sensing that there would be no answer, Charlie nodded, satisfied with the answers they were afforded.

 

Susanna didn’t even bring a letter with her when she came to visit. She didn’t even bother to announce she was coming. Figaro was lying on the couch trimming his fingernails when his counterpart materialized beside him, startling the lounging familiar.

“Fuck, Susanna. You can’t just do that!”

“Language,” Susanna chided, “and yes, I can. If you don’t like it, get Zenthella and Faith-Anne to break the linkage.”

“I have half a mind to,” Figaro grumbled, gathering up fingernail clippings before standing and depositing them in a trash can. “What do you want?”

“I need to speak with Dappled Zenthella.”

Figaro frowned. “She’s not here; she and Charlie went to the store. Can I take a message?”

“This will actually work better if the message officially stays between us. Faith-Anne doesn’t think Zenthella should have the Madame title.”

“Hm. Zen doesn’t want it.”

Susanna rolled her eyes. “Like that’s going to stop anything. Faith doesn’t think Zenthella should have it, but she does think it’s probably in the family’s best interest. At least in the short term. Lucrita’s going to speed up the whole Madame thing after the attack on the Casa del Arbol. She’s going to invite Zenthella to the Manor to help clean it up and re-fortify it, and Lucrita’s going to try to groom and push her into the title.”

“How do you know all of this?”

Susanna rolled her eyes again, adding in a hair toss for good measure. “Between you and me, Faith’s been the second child in a lot of ways over her life. She knows how to read her mother, if only because she’s spent her entire life watching her. We’re not going to get invited to the Manor. That’ll just be y’all. For a variety of reasons. So be ready.” Susanna stood, hand frozen in the air, ready to open a portal back home. “If Zenthella takes the title and doesn’t renounce it after all this is over, Faith will probably challenge her for it. Faith would be a better Madame.” A pause, Figaro’s silence incriminating. “But if Joseph challenges her, well. Beat him into the ground.”

“Goodbye, Susanna.” With a pop Figaro was alone with his thoughts.

 

Wolfgang returned to Zenthella’s home one day after Susanna’s meeting with Figaro, a letter from the Madame Sandoute clenched in his hand.

“For Zenthella,” he said with his leather and oil voice. He popped away without another word.

“Lucrita wants us to come to the Sandoute Manor,” Zenthella declared after reading the letter. “I’m not surprised, but it’ll be a trip. She says she has to do it in a week, our schedule be damned, or we do it alone. Figaro, you can’t open a portal for us to there, right?”

“No,” the familiar confirmed.

“Wait, why?” Charlie emerged from their room, completely shameless about their eavesdropping. “I thought familiars could warp anywhere?”

“No,” Figaro said. “We’d be way too powerful that way, just popping around any place we want. There’re rules. We can always open a portal to our Coventium headquarters. That’s the Estate for us. And a familiar can always warp directly to our witch, like the recall function on the Coventium library books. Other than that, there are some rules. We can warp to and maybe open portals to other places, if given explicit permission and gates are established. The Sandoutes have gates at all of our homes, allowing me, Susanna, and Wolfgang to move between the three easily. Other than that, we can only warp to our home, wherever home is. For us that’s here, this apartment, not the Sandoute Manor.”

“That hasn’t been home for a long time,” Zenthella said offhandedly. “So we’ll have to take the motorcycle.”

“You have a motorcycle?” Charlie leaned forward, eyes wide. “You’re like one of the Hells Angels?”

“Oh,” Zenthella laughed, “I definitely wouldn’t say that. But yes, I have a motorcycle. You and I will take that to the Manor, and Figaro will warp to me with our luggage once we arrive there. We can start packing soon.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Figaro said, meandering towards the dish where all normal, not crazy mail was kept. The familiar absently flipped through various envelopes, stopping at one with crisp white edges and blocky, government looking print. “Zenthella, you have something here.”

“Oh?” The letter was opened, and a very fancy sheet was pulled from the envelope. Zenthella’s eyes scanned the page, then closed for a minute. She sat the paper down and strode out of the apartment; Figaro and Charlie could hear knocking on Barley’s door. Figaro gingerly picked up the sheet and read it, letting out a low whistle.

“Zen’s been invited to the upcoming Mayor’s Gala. We all have been.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Zenthella said, walking back into the room, “We did a basic act of kindness and it got blown out of proportion.”

“It was a basic thing, but it was really big.”

“What is it though?” Charlie pressed.

“Remember when that building halfway down The Greenery collapsed?”

Charlie’s brows furrowed as they thought. “Oh, yeah. The one that collapsed in the middle of the night? What was it called, the Tiger Building?”

“Kiger,” Zenthella said. “And yeah, that’s the one. You were asleep when it happened, and we never told you all this in any detail, but Figaro, Barley, Cecily and I went that night and helped heal and evacuate people. The Gala wants to recognize us.”

“Wait, why didn’t you tell me this?”

“Because it didn’t ever really come up, and because there was a little bit of a funky magic signature around it that we didn’t want to worry you with. So we just helped some people, filed a Coventium report, and went off.”

“Oh. That’s super cool though.”

“It is.” Figaro said firmly. “If only Zen would accept it.”

“It’s whatever,” the witch said, settling into the couch. “It’s for the future, in any case. Right there with everything else. So. What movie are we watching tonight?”


	12. An Overture for Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was a pleasure to burn" -Ray Bradbury  
> “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” -Robert Frost

Charlie’s first real memory was of fire. That wouldn’t be a problem by itself, but that memory in particular was from less than a year ago. The fire wasn’t their definitive first memory, for there were bits and pieces of before the fire that Charlie retained. Charlie remembered that there were others, wherever they were before. That it was just a series of rooms, overseen by a man with a permanent frown. Even those details were getting harder to remember, each day robbing more and more detail like the tides going out. Charlie suspected Zenthella knew that their memory was a little strange, if only because they knew that they hadn’t done the best job at keeping it hidden. Little things would just slip occasionally, like when Charlie saw the ocean for the first time. Charlie also knew that Zenthella had checked out a bunch of books from the Coventium library, all of which had something to do with memory. That helped clue them in as well. The problem was, all of those books talked about fixing memory problems with magic. And Charlie didn’t want magic running through their head.

Charlie wasn’t scared of magic, per say. But it’s like people who aren’t necessarily scared of heights, but are scared of falling from a height. Charlie was afraid of what magic does. Like that first night they lived with Zenthella and Figaro, with the floating. That terrified them, and the dreams never stopped. Charlie guessed that they just got better at controlling it. Or hiding it. Or both. On the topic of fears, Charlie was also afraid of fire, and they would suppose that was justified. It’s easy to be afraid when you almost die in a magic fire. And Charlie was well aware how close they came to dying. They thought about it, sometimes, when there’s no one around to see them shut down. It was like running miles and miles and having weights put on their chest. It was like going to sleep. It was like being stretched, not so much that it hurt, but just enough they could feel it through every muscle in the body. It was like being cooked, ever so gently. They had been dying, and there were no doubts about it.

Charlie felt bad, sometimes, because of how much they didn’t tell Zenthella. Like the dreams, and like the memory thing. Technically, Charlie never told her that they were amnesiac. Zenthella was just really smart. Really smart and really cool. Like, Charlie had never met another person as cool as Zenthella. Or Figaro. But then again, Charlie didn’t really remember meeting a lot of people. Right now, Charlie was clutched to Zenthella on the back of her motorcycle, speeding down the highway in the dead of night. The road was cut into the side of a mountain range, and Charlie was treated to panoramic views of the country off the side of the mountain. They did occasionally have to contend with one of Zenthella’s braids slapping them in the face from under her red helmet, but it was their own fault for not putting down the visor on their own helmet. Charlie just thought that the view deserved to be taken in with unobstructed eyes. Everything was a little disjointed right now. The mountains made sense. The words were all running together and everything seemed like to much. Emerson was right, Charlie thought. Nature was an escape.

Figaro was still at home, at the outpost in New Chora. Home wasn’t a funny word on Charlie’s tongue anymore. Home was now half of the second floor of 124 Babylon Boulevard, at the intersection of Butchart Street. It was the living room that flowed so naturally into a kitchen, the island where they all ate so easily separating the two. Home was Charlie’s bed in their room, finally beginning to be decorated a little here and there. A desk had been put in, and stickers were starting to adorn the drawers. Polaroids hung to fairy lights by clothespins, depicting Charlie with Zen and Fig, with Davie, sitting at the desk drawing, with their ballet class. Charlie’s closet was finally filling out, even if they stuck almost exclusively to pastel hoodies and dark jeans. That first night, so terrified of doing anything wrong, Charlie hadn’t let themself consider that they would get this far. That they had escaped the fire. Yet here they were.

The packing had been done in a hurry, even though Zenthella wasn’t exactly forcing everyone to leave quickly. There was the one week deadline, but that wasn’t the entire story. Charlie couldn’t quite nail down if Zenthella even wanted to go on this trip. The Sandoute Manor had apparently been in Zenthella’s family for generations, since one of her forefathers taught himself how to use magic and escaped slavery, seizing the house and keeping his family safe until the Civil War had been fought and emancipation granted. The house was in North Carolina, nestled against the Appalachian Mountains, and it was the traditional home of the leader of the Sandoute family. This pattern had been broken though, Lucrita had left the home to catch dust when she had gone down to Florida several years prior. Faith-Anne, who lived in North Carolina’s Outer Banks, would occasionally come check on the Manor, but other than that it was left unattended. Charlie knew that cleaning up the house, and a potential move there, would serve Lucrita’s whole plan to get Zenthella as the Madame Sandoute-- which Zen absolutely did not want. Charlie may not know exactly how Zen felt towards her mother, but anyone with eyes or ears could tell that Zenthella didn’t want to be Madame Sandoute. Beyond Lucrita though, Charlie was a little unsure how Zenthella dealt with her family as a whole. She and Faith-Anne seemed to get along alright, even if they weren’t exactly close and constantly talking to one another. Lucrita was what she was, and Charlie was dimly aware that there was an uncle, Lucrita’s brother, who was something of a black sheep in the Sandoute family. Charlie wasn’t entirely sure why, but Joseph was rarely mentioned, and even then it was never kindly.

Charlie was also fairly sure Zenthella had been married once, or engaged to be married, but they would never bring it up with her in a million years. There was a photo in Zenthella’s room though, of her hugging a man on the Greenway. They both had the biggest smiles, and it always made Charlie smile too. On Zenthella’s hand in that photo was what looked like an engagement ring, yet Charlie had never seen the ring in the present day. Or heard anything about the man in the photograph. He was just a mystery in Zenthella’s life that Charlie had no business trying to solve. Charlie hoped that Zen would talk about him one day, tell Charlie all about that chapter of her life, but Charlie was resigned to the fact that Zenthella was a private person. Her story was her own. Charlie wondered if Lucrita had something to do with the engagement, or if she ended the relationship. Charlie could ask Figaro about the man, or even Faith-Anne. But that could come a little too close to invasive.

Zenthella exited the highway, gradually braking as she and Charlie came to a stoplight.

“Gas,” she said by way of explanation. Charlie nodded, eager to stretch their legs as the two pulled into a station. “I’m going to go in, is there anything you want?”

“Could I get some candy?”

“Something sour?”

Charlie nodded. “Something sour.”

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” Zenthella disembarked, setting her helmet down on the seat. “You pump the gas, and I’ll get the food. You can go in and use the bathroom if you need to when I get back.” Zenthella swiped her card and nodded at Charlie before heading inside, leaving the witchling alone again with their thoughts.

Zenthella wasn’t Charlie’s mother. Figaro was not Charlie’s father. Charlie didn’t know who their parents were, or where they could be. Charlie didn’t know if they had siblings, if they had grandparents who had held them as a baby or aunts to pinch their cheeks. Charlie wondered if their family missed them. It could be assumed that their family missed them to some degree. Charlie had always held the conviction that they had been stolen by the people who held them captive for however long it was, but if they were being honest they had no real reason to think that. In some small, quiet part of Charlie’s mind they knew that it was easier to think they were kidnapped, and that examining alternatives might lead to answers they would rather not know. So they let their assumptions rule. It was easier.

The gas pump clicked off, startling Charlie. They had just put nozzle back in the pump when Zenthella walked back up, a bag of sour gummy worms in her hand. “Go use the bathroom now if you need to, because we’re about an hour out and I’m not stopping until we get there.” Charlie nodded, heading inside and relieving themselves. Then they were back on the bike, one hand around Zenthella and the other conveying risky bites of candy from the bag to their mouth. One hour didn’t sound too bad. They had made it five hours, so what was one more?

Setting their gaze on the sky now, Charlie let themselves begin to ramble within their mind again. The stars were just as beautiful as the mountains. More so, perhaps, because they were distant. Distance wasn’t always the bad thing people made it out to be. Distance could be cold, sure, but so was space. The miles and miles between each burning hot star. It was good, Charlie thought, that two such extremes were so far apart. Sad as well, perhaps. But two things designed to live in harmony shouldn’t hurt one another; it was better for a pair to be apart and live than be together and die. At least the stars got to see space, and space the stars. One was constantly living in and moving through the other. The stars looked cold to Charlie, no matter how hot they knew the stars really were. The sky looked as if it was dotted with ice, slowly freezing over into a beautiful winter prepared to drape the galaxy in snow. It was much better than the mountains. Charlie’s mind flashed back to when he was at the Coventium Estate, to when he met the library apprentices. Charlie and the apprentices had talked for a while, a whole day in fact, and among the things Charlie learned about was the idea of the five sources as being attributable to individuals. All the sources had been explained to Charlie, but they really didn’t need to remember anything other than Ocean and Stars. Charlie usually thought that they themselves were an Ocean. But then again, Charlie hated assigning themselves things like that. They felt that it was better for a friend, someone outside of Charlie’s head, to really place Charlie amidst the long list of attributes. Zenthella though, Charlie was sure, was aligned with the Stars. A little bit distant, hot and cold. Elegant and graceful. Beautiful, but in a melancholy way. Because the stars are so distant, no one could ever get back everything that was poured into the bond between people and the sky. Zenthella was powerful, full of fire and intrigue and mystique. The alignments meant nothing. But Charlie couldn’t help but correlate his mother figure-- his guardian, rather-- with the forces of the stars and cosmos. By classical witch magiology, that meant Zenthella was especially in power at night. Maybe that’s why she wanted to do this whole trip under the stars. Maybe Charlie was just reading into all of this too much.

Sooner than they expected, the motorcycle was peeling off again, exiting the highway and slowly moving down the mountain. The woods slowly started to get thicker around the road, until it felt that Charlie couldn’t see the sky itself, just glimpses of stars amidst foliage. The motorcycle peeled off from the main road, heading down a side road before taking another turn down what appeared to be a very long driveway. Willow trees lines the driveway, long limbs gently swaying in the breeze as Zenthella and Charlie drove by.

“We’re here,” Zenthella said at last. “I didn’t really think I would be back here for a long time, but here we are. Welcome to Sandoute Manor, ancestral home of my family and all that jazz.” The bike came to a full stop, the engine’s purr now obviously absent in the quiet night. Zenthella reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, remotely turning the lights off at the house in New Chora. A minute later a portal opened beside her, Figaro stepping out with two suitcases.

“As effective as it is to have a signal like that, it’s just a little scary to be sitting by yourself before the lights abruptly go off.” Figaro offered Charlie their suitcase, keeping Zenthella’s in his hand. The familiar looked at the manor for a second before turning back to Zenthella. “We’re back.”

“Yeah. Let’s go in.”

It was too dark for Charlie to make out any good details about the house. It was white, that much was obvious, and two stories. Charlie passed columns when stepping up onto the porch, and the door was a dark color not immediately recognizable in the night. As the door opened though, Charlie saw that it was green. The entrance opened into a lovely foyer, plum walls hugging the hallway, with a fireplace visible at the end of the hall. As Charlie walked down the hallway, something began to shift. They became vaguely aware of voices, and their movements seemed to be getting more and more sluggish. Freezing in panic, Charlie realized that the hallway seemed to be spiraling into an abyss, and that they were in danger of falling into the darkness. Charlie grabbed the wall in panic, desperate to get a hold on anything.

“Shit,” Zenthella swore, striding past Charlie and into the darkness. Charlie cried out for Zenthella as she spiraled away, and was equally powerless as Figaro followed her. It was almost comical, watching him drag that suitcase in circles as he disappeared. Then the voices got louder, swelling in Charlie’s head like the ocean. They sank to the floor, fighting the urge to vomit as the world shifted back to normal. They were halfway down the perfectly linear hallway, suitcase discarded two feet behind them. Ahead, Zenthella was positively yelling at someone, Figaro silently fuming behind her. As Charlie stood up and got closer, the yelling became more distinct and recognizable as words.

“-and you are an adult! You’re not some angsty teenager with newfound powers! You can’t just do stuff like this mother! Can't just let it get out of hand!” Charlie blinked once or twice, taking in the woman standing toe to toe with Zenthella. She must be the legendary Lucrita.

“Thank you, Zenthella. You make an excellent point.” Charlie wheeled to the speaker, a man who had gone unnoticed.

“Don’t get me started on you,” Zenthella growled. “You need to leave. She has every right to magically bitch slap you, she just shouldn’t let others get hurt in the process.” The man frowned but said no more. “I want you gone,” Zenthella said. “I imagine mother said as much.”

“She did,” the man said. “I want to stay the night and eat breakfast with you all.”

“Why?”

“Because I never see you,” the man admitted. “Family should see each other once in a while.”

“We’ve seen each other, and it wasn’t fun, and you should go.”

“I’m staying for breakfast.”

“Leave, Joseph.” Lucrita’s voice wasn’t as angry as Zenthella’s, but the words hit far harder. “You have no business here.” Joseph nodded, mouth twisting. He walked out of the room, towards the front door, towards Charlie, eyes dark and mouth closed.

Joseph stopped as he came to Charlie though, looking down his nose at the witchling. “Be wary of my niece Zenthella, child. You look like her witchling, and this advice will mean something. Zenthella is a taker. Her mother too, and the sooner you know it the better. This whole family is composed of greedy people. But they never demand. They never beg. You don’t even realize how much they're taking, usually. But one day, if you’re not careful, you’ll look up and realize just how much they took, and you’ll hate yourself for how much you unwittingly gave.”

“Get. Out.” Zenthella’s voice was final, coming from right behind Joseph’s shoulder. He went through the door without another word. Zenthella took Charlie’s hand, leading them back down the hall and up stairs. Zenthella turned to the right, opening a door and flipping on the switch. “Sleep,” Zenthella ordered Charlie. She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a low groan. “This is already such a shitshow, tomorrow will probably be worse.”

“Language,” Charlie chided, though there wasn’t much behind it. Drowsiness had hit them like a train the moment they saw a bed. They only took off their shoes, falling onto the bed as Zenthella flipped the switch. Drifting off to sleep, Charlie managed to wonder if Zenthella had slept in this pink room, or if this had been her bed as a child. But Charlie was asleep, with questions for another day.


	13. Breakfast Past Willows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! Start your mornings the witchy way!

Camellia bushes lined the sloping backyard of the Sandoute Manor. Moonflowers lined the manor proper, and willow trees lined the long gravel driveway leading to the house. Larger trees, native to the mountainous area, surrounded the entire property and isolated the witches from the rest of the world. It was better that way, Sandoutes had long concluded, due to non-magi’s fear and dislike of witches in their society. The woods were an excellent buffer. The town of Renville wasn’t too far away, about a twenty minute drive up the mountain, and the only other thing nearby was a gas station about ten miles down the road. It was quiet, and it was like a paradise.

The house itself was white, with a green roof and a green front door. A magnificent porch wrapped around half the front, the left, and the back sides of the house, providing ample shade and a swing from which one could look upon the backyard. A glass enclosure sat on the right side of the house, and through the glass one could see the myriad of plants grown inside. Windows dotted all sides of the manor, letting light stream inside during the day and were cracked for cool air in the evenings. It was through one of these opened windows that smoke was escaping, accompanied by a stream of cursing.

“Language, darling. It’s just an omelette.”

“It keeps burning,” Zenthella hissed. “This is the third time.”

“Maybe let me do it?” Lucrita stretched out her hand, ready to accept the spatula Zenthella kept firmly in her grip.

“No. I’ll just scramble it.”

“Giving up?”

“Yes. Pass me another tomato.”

Lucrita obliged, shooting an unconscious look out of the screen door to where her tomato vines were beginning to grow flowers. “Won’t be too long until everything’s in bloom,” she noted. “The camellia’s already going strong.”

“Our camellias are always strong,” Zenthella said, dicing the tomato with practiced movements. “It’s the magic.”

“It’s not magic,” Lucrita tutted, passing some basil. “We’re just good gardeners.”

“I’m not,” Zenthella protested, cracking eggs into the frying pan for what was hopefully the last time. “I couldn’t even grow weeds. I can make potions and elixirs, but the growing…”

“Fair. Your sister’s thumb was always a little greener than yours.” Lucrita looked outside again before moving to the eating area, straightening forks on their napkins. “What time does Charlie plan to join us?”

“Whenever they wake up, I suppose.”

“And your familiar?”

“Whenever I call him.”

“You should. Breakfast is soon.”

“It’s Sunday. We’ll brunch.”

“Will we?” Lucrita raised an eyebrow at her daughter’s eggs. “I have plans for the day. And you’ll have to have a meal to brunch.”

“I can scramble eggs,” Zenthella protested, plating her food.

“Dry,” Lucrita noted. But she went on her way. Zenthella had been in the house for about a week now, getting the estate back up to muster. The very first task had been a cleanse of the house, a archaic and bothersome thing that involved a lot of burning herbs and incantations. Witch magic in general didn’t require any spoken elements, though singing was a special outlier, but incantations were useful in imbuing intent and purpose in a static object. After the house had been cleaned on a spiritual and energetic level, the wards and shields had to be rebuilt. That had taken two days, though they had also managed to weed the estate at the same time. The remaining four days were spent re-establishing some plants in the north-facing greenhouse room and other general cleaning in all the various rooms of the manor. It had been strange, at first, returning to her old bedroom and sleeping in her old bed. Zenthella really hadn’t ever planned on returning to this house, especially after the herculean effort it took to leave. It was strange to have Charlie emerge from Faith-Anne’s room every morning, and it was strange to see grey hairs on her mother’s head as she strode around the house, accomplishing this and that. Time had passed when no one was looking. And now things were different.

“Figaro.” Finger combing his hair, Figaro obediently stepped through a portal to his master’s side from wherever he was before. “Go wake up Charlie please, it’s time to eat.”

Figaro shot Zenthella a reproachful glare, slightly peeved that he had been dragged out of bed just to trudge back up the stairs. But away he went. Zenthella cracked another two eggs in her frying pan, this time adding a splash of milk.

“You know, I was talking to Anita Michaels the other day,” Lucrita said conversationally, “after church, of course. And we, of course, got to talking about children, and-”

“Mother.” Zenthella’s tone was pleading yet firm. “Can we not do this before breakfast?”

“After, then? It isn’t about Zachariah, if that’s what you’re so concerned about.”

“Really? Because it’s always about him, whenever you bring that family up.” Zenthella plated the second serving of eggs a little more forcefully than needed, but she didn’t spill any, and that was what mattered.

“I won’t say that I’m not disappointed with how all that turned out, but really Zenthella, you’re not the center of the world. You always expect everything to relate back to you, surely I didn’t raise you to be so self-centered.” Lucrita took the frying pan from Zenthella to the sink, immediately beginning to scrub. Lucrita did not believe in letting dishes pile up

“What is it then?”

“Well, you know how Sir Requist Stewart Michaels has been leading that family for a while now? Well, it seems that Pip Samuel might challenge him for the position of family head.”

“Sammy? He’ll get creamed.”

“Perhaps not,” Lucrita tutted. “Your generation is full of surprises.”

Zenthella was quiet as she set her place at the table, stopping in her tracks as it all clicked into place. “Oh. My generation. As a family head.”

“It’s not as if you all aren’t capable. And we need new blood in the Coventium’s Senate. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, but I’m not going to take the Madame title. New blood or not. Please stop trying to roundabout ease me into-- oh, good morning Charlie.”

The witchling trudged down the hall, blearily rubbing their eyes as they tied a robe tighter around their waist. Figaro trailed behind them, rolling his eyes.

“This one sleeps more than I do,” the familiar tutted as he slid into a chair.

“I’m a growing child,” Charlie said, voice heavy with sleep. “I need to sleep all I can.”

“You need to go to sleep earlier,” Lucrita said firmly. “If you’re tired, move up your bedtime.”

“I’m fine,” Charlie protested, though they didn’t sound so sure. “Anyways, what’re we doing today? More gardening?”

“You can garden some more,” Lucrita said, looking once again at her back yard before sitting down at the table. “It’s getting later in the season, and I want to have everything in the ground by the end of the month.”

Zenthella glanced up from her too dry scrambled eggs. “Are you growing more flowers?”

“Just the marigold. Would you pass the biscuits?” Zenthella obliged, and soon all four were happily eating. “We will be going to church at 11,” Lucrita said. She said it almost casually, but with a certainty in her tone that her decree would be followed. Charlie blinked up from their food, glancing at Figaro before looking at Zenthella. Zenthella nodded, as if this was expected.

“We won’t be dressed. Charlie doesn’t have anything to wear. My church clothes are at home.”

“I suspected as much,” Lucrita said as she bit into an apple. “Your familiar could get yours, and I can take Charlie into town to get them something to wear. Amazing what you can get done when you get up early.”

“And after church?”

“Well, the house is generally cleaned. So you and I could focus on cleaning junk out of the house, old things in drawers and whatnot. Charlie and your familiar can focus on the gardening. Sweet potatoes, grapes, marigold, and tomato in the back especially. In the greenhouse, I just want a big herb selection. Charlie and I can pick out some herbs when we’re in town, or we can all get some after church. That’ll fill up our afternoon. Zenthella, are you or I making dinner?”

“I can,” Zenthella said, taking her plate to the sink before returning to the table.

“Zen, can I have a cup of coffee? For church?”

Zenthella peered at Charlie, taking a sip from her own coffee cup. It wasn’t that Charlie just did things without asking permission first, but this wasn’t something she would have expected them asking of her. It felt maternal, and Zenthella could feel Lucrita watching her. “I hardly think coffee and church are connected, but sure. But only one cup, I have a feeling caffeine's going to hit you hard.”

“And maybe try a little sip before pouring a whole cup,” Figaro suggested as he slid the cream and sugar to the witchling.

“I can handle it,” Charlie said as they took their first sip. They managed to suppress the majority of their cringe, and gave the rest of the table a forced grin as they took a second sip.

“Are you going to try to pretend you like coffee and finish that, or can you go ahead and shower so you and Lucrita can go the the store?” Blushing slightly, Charlie excused themselves from the table before heading back up the stairs.

“That child,” Lucrita said, shaking her head slightly. “I really never expected you to be a mentor, at least not until you had children of your own.”

“So you never expected me to be a mentor?”

“Not really,” Lucrita said mildly. “I like Charlie though. They’re a little much, with all their… you know. All the normal teenage existential angst. But a good child overall. Oh, and I’ve been wondering. You know I love having you here, having a Sandoute back in the manor, but will you need to take them back to New Chora soon for school? I can’t imagine them missing this many days without a mountain of make-up work.”

Zenthella bit her lip, desperately wanting to lie to her mother. If she said Charlie had school, she could leave earlier. “I homeschool Charlie, so we’re good on that front,” Zenthella admitted. “They can continue their studies here, so…” Zenthella took a breath. “We can stay here as long as needed.”

“Homeschooled?” Lucrita frowned, hands clasped. “Is there something wrong with the schools in New Chora?”

“No, but--”

“Was  _ Brooms v. King _ not decided by the Supreme Court?”

“That’s not exactly relevant to--”

“Zenthella, you’re not a teacher. Why are you homeschooling that child?”

“Because it’s easier, even though it’s harder.”

Lucrita stood and washed off her plate before placing it in the dishwasher. When she spoke again, her words were softer.“What do you mean?”

Zenthella wanted to choose her words very carefully and say as much as she could in as little words possible. When she began to speak, the words just fell out. “Charlie is… different. They aren’t like the other boys and girls for a lot of reasons. Chiefly among those reasons is that they aren’t exactly a boy or girl. They’re them. And that’s okay. But middle schoolers don’t always know that it’s okay. So I’m saving them from that. I’m also saving them, for as long as I can, the daily friction of being a witch. Of having that mark on their neck. Because I wish someone had saved me from that. And because one last way Charlie is different is that they’re awkward. Socially, they lack a lot of skills. They hide it with manners and silence, but it’s there.” Zenthella sipped her coffee. “Charlie has what is effectively amnesia. Did you… oh. I’m not sure if I can tell you this part.”

“I probably already know,” Lucrita said. “I have a habit of being nosy. And at this point, you need to finish with your truths. Keeping in half the truth is worse than holding a whole one.”

“Do you remember the fire that burned down the hotel they were building in the Flash District?”

“Vaguely.”

“Charlie was there that night. They were being used as the fuel for the fire.” Lucrita said nothing, hand covering her mouth. “The Matriarch was called due to the… irregularity of the event, and Charlie was placed with me and Barley until we could figure out what was going on. That was in January. Now here we are, a third of the way through April, and we’re still at a loss as to what happened. We don’t know how Charlie got in that mess, what happened to them beforehand, why they’re amnesiac, we don’t know who is responsible, and we don’t know if Charlie will…”

“If Charlie will be moved again,” Lucrita finished.

“Yeah.” Zenthella was quiet then, an uncomfortable nothing stretching out between the two women. Lucrita bridged that nothing before it got too big, placing a hand on her daughter’s. Zenthella was shaking slightly.

“You will find your answers,” Lucrita said. “Or you won’t. It isn’t for you to decide right now. Some things are in the hands of God alone. You can only be patient. Stay level headed. You need to be able to recognize the solution when it comes to you, and you’re smart. So smart, smarter than me. You’ll know it when you see it, whatever it is, but only if you’re calm and collected. So find yourself, Ellie. Calm yourself. It’ll be alright. Maybe not tomorrow, and maybe not fantastic, but it will be alright.”

“It’ll be alright,” Zenthella repeated. It was a whisper, but a firm one. Zenthella rose from the table and bent to kiss her mother on the head. “Thanks. Really.” Zenthella passed Charlie on the stairs, the witchling saying nothing as Zenthella ascended. Charlie made their way back to the dining room, tracking Zenthella’s footsteps, before standing at the table in front of Lucrita.

“Madame Sandoute, are we heading out?”

“Whenever you’re ready.” Getting a firm nod from the witchling, Lucrita chose a coat from the coat closet and plucked her keys from the hooks by the door before giving Charlie a wink over her shoulder. “And please, call me Lucrita.” And off the two went, on the hunt for proper clothes to praise the Lord.


	14. The Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's getting ready to church!

Zenthella drove a motorcycle. It was sleek, it was fast, it was efficient, it was undeniably Zenthella’s. Lucrita drove an old Toyota Corolla. It was comfortable though, with thickly padded grey cushions and a heavy seat belt. The car smelled like black ice according to the little freshener hanging from Lucrita’s rear view mirror, though Charlie didn’t think this was exactly what ice smelled like. Lucrita had glanced at Charlie out of the corner of her eye when they had taken shotgun, but she didn’t say anything. Lucrita personally wouldn’t have put the child upfront-- Charlie was much too small, in her opinion-- but Lucrita reasoned that this wasn’t something worth fighting. Best to save her quarreling energy for an argument worth having.

“So,” Lucrita said as the two drove down the road, “how is living with Zenthella?”

“She’s great,” Charlie said. “I really enjoy living in New Chora with her.”

“Good, good.” The two lapsed back into silence. “So. What music are you listening to? Anything I would know?”

“Oh,” Charlie said, “Um, Lately? I’m listening to a lot of Bleachers lately. I’m trying to determine if Lana Del Rey is actually good or just really good at selling a product, so I’m listening to a lot of her. And, um. Zen’s been giving me some music to listen to, I like some of her music.”

“And what does my daughter listen to these days?”

“The most powerful voices she can find.” Charlie smiled, looking through the windshield to something only they could see. “Whitney Houston, Beyonce. We listen to Ariana Grande together ‘cause her range is so incredible.”

“She’s always liked the voices,” Lucrita said. “I don’t really know your music though, but I think I have an old Miami Sound Machine CD in the console, if you want to listen to something. Or there’s radio, but I don’t know any stations other than NPR.”

“I like NPR,” Charlie said, turning on the radio. The station was already set, and the two once again fell into silence, though this one was much more comfortable with the NPR news reporter filling the dead air. The two said nothing else until the car stopped, the two stepping out into a parking lot.

“I know it’s a little silly,” Lucrita said, “but I want to get you something. I feel as if I should give you a gift.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Charlie protested, following the older woman into the store.

“Oh, I know,” Lucrita said. “It’s irrational. But when Faith’s baby was born the grandma instinct was kicked on and now I can’t seem to shake it. Not that you’re Zenthella’s child, of course.”

“Right,” Charlie said with a frown. Inside the store, the witchling was assailed with the scent of old books, old leather, and cloth. Racks of clothes occupied almost every square inch of the right side of the store, while the left side was dominated by towering bookshelves packed tight with hundreds of books.

“Follow me,” Lucrita commanded, taking Charlie by the hand and leading them through the tightly cut aisled between racks. “This consignment store has been here since before I was born, handed down through the family. Ellie and Faith’s wardrobes now probably still have some pieces from here, and it’s all good quality. Phoebe doesn’t allow any rubbish into her store. Nick gets a little permissive with the books, but that’s neither here nor there.” The pair stopped in front of the pants, Lucrita giving Charlie a quick glance over before quickly sifting through the racks, pulling a variety of pants in a variety of sizes. “The unfortunate thing is, you will have to try it all on. But I’m sure you can be quick.” The witch and witchling moved one aisle over to the shirts and began again, pulling a few nice button-downs from the rack before pressing them into the witchling’s arms.

“Where’s the dressing room,” came Charlie’s voice from under a mountain of fabric.

“Back right,” Lucrita said as she moved off to yet another rack, already on the hunt for something else. “And hurry, we have lots of things to do before the service today!”

Charlie made their way back to the dressing room, trying things on as quickly as they could. There was a nice pair of grey slacks that fit well, and a decent white dress shirt. There was one other shirt that fit decently, a blue button down made of a heavier fabric, but the other garments didn’t work. They were either too baggy and threatened to fall off of Charlie’s narrow frame or entirely too tight, revealing too much of the witchling’s shape. Exiting the small dressing room and hanging the row of ill-fitting clothes on a rack, Charlie rejoined Lucrita.

“Those worked?” A direct question, accompanied by a head nod.

“Yes ma’m.” Equally direct.

“You need a coat,” Lucrita said distractedly, shifting through dozens of hangers at a blinding pace. Charlie frowned, but they didn’t argue. They didn’t want a coat, didn’t think it was necessary. They didn’t want Lucrita to buy them things. It felt like too much; too much to stay in her house, to eat her food, to accept her money and let her buy church clothes. But at the same time, Charlie knew they couldn’t refuse. The gift was a gift, not a pea for charity or an attempt to buy them. They were just clothes. Lost in their internal monologue, Lucrita’s voice brought them back to the moment. “We’re going to go bigger rather than smaller; I know a really good tailor who can take it all in. Then, as you grow, the coat can be let back out. More practical that way, don’t you think?”

“Very,” Charlie agreed. They walked away, content to let Lucrita do the searching for them, but stopped, something catching their eye. “What about this one?” It was a tweed with red lining, and it was the perfect amount of too big.

Lucrita checked the tag before nodding. “If you like it, it’s yours.”

“I think I like it a lot.”

Lucrita offered them a smile, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Good. It’s a nice piece.” She quickly paid for the clothes, putting everything into one oversized bag before rolling back into the car. “To the tailor.” She beat a drum beat into the steering wheel with her thumbs as she drove, listening to NPR tell her about the day. As Charlie watched her, a thought occurred to them. It was an old thought, not overly worn in Charlie’s mind but certainly not a strange one, and Charlie figured Lucrita’s to be as good of an answer as any.

“Mrs. Sandoute?”

“Lucrita, Charlie. Lucrita.”

“May I ask a personal question?”

Lucrita didn’t blink. “Yes. But there’s no guarantee I’ll answer it.”

Charlie chewed on their lip for a moment before proceeding. “Where’s Mr. Sandoute?”

Lucrita smiled at the question, and for a moment her face changed in the strangest way. She was sad; there was undeniable sadness in her smile and eyes. But also a lightness, a tenderness, as if the mere mention of her husband could lift her spirits and brighten her day. “He’s dead. I can actually show you his grave later today. Or Ellie could. He passed away of a heart attack a year or so after Faith-Anne graduated college. It was totally out of the blue, and it was the worst day of my entire life, and he would laugh at me now for saying that. Henry had always been so funny about death; he had always wanted to go first. He wasn’t scared to die. He didn’t care how or when it happened, so long as he didn’t have to see us go before him. Maybe he was selfish, I don’t know. If he was selfish, he got his wish. He got to meet Coulson and Zachariah, though he died before Coulson and Faith-Anne could get married. He missed April’s birth. You getting folded in. But he never had to see any of us die. We were the lucky ones to live out his nightmare. But we made it, we’re here.”

“Was he a witch?”

“Oh, God no. He was absolutely not a witch at all. Completely without a lick of magic. It’s one of the reasons I loved him so much, and absolutely the reason Faith-Anne has her name while Zenthella has a more traditional witch name.”

“You got dibs on the firstborn?”

Another smile, this one a flashed grin. “Yep.” The grin was sighed out of existence. “I miss him. I think I’ll miss him until I join him, assuming I get to join him. I go to church, I pray, but no one gets to know what comes next. If I get to go to God’s heavenly Paradise or if my eternal soul will be rendered once again upon the Immortal Beach like so many witches before me. I just know Henry was braver than me. I fear death. I think I’ll always have more to do.” The car stopped in front of an old building, a sign proudly proclaiming the tailor inside to be ‘Renville’s Finest!’ “And on that cheery note,” Lucrita dryly said, “let’s get your jacket taken in.”

It was warm inside the tailor’s shop. An old man with enormous glasses stood behind the counter chewing on a pencil, looking up as the bell on top of the door cheerily announced the witches.

“How may I help you today?” The man’s voice was a slow rumble, taking its time as it passed through every syllable.

“We need to take in a jacket,” Lucrita said, laying the garment in question on the counter. “Get it sized up for the little one here.”

The man looked at Charlie for a moment before picking up the coat. “Are you sure? The buttons are on the left side,” he noted. He clicked his tongue as he sat the jacket down, looking at Charlie once again with an expression Charlie wasn’t entirely sure they liked.

“And?”

The tailor looked up, not expecting the challenge in Lucrita’s voice. “It was an observation.”

“We just need the sleeves hemmed and bottom taken in.”

“I can do that now,” the tailor said, beckoning Charlie behind the counter.

“Good, because church is later this morning.”

The tailor had Charlie step up onto a stool and don the jacket as a tape measure was produced. “And where do you attend?”

“The Methodist church on Gale Street.”

“Methodist on Gale? Not the Baptist ones?”

“No.” Lucrita’s voice was flat. “Not the Baptist ones.”

“Methodist on Gale and a left sided jacket. You’ll fit right in, child.” The tailor took the jacket from Charlie, having made all necessary measurements, and retreated to a back room to alter the garment.

“Lucrita…” Charlie’s voice was low, not quite sure how to ask about the atmosphere that burned in the small room.

“He’s an old man, Charlie.”

“But I don’t understand. Are you two even fighting? It’s like…” Charlie’s mouth quirked, trying to think of a proper analogy. “Like invisible ping pong,” they settled on. The two milled about the tailor’s store for a little while longer before the man emerged from his room, offering the jacket to Lucrita.

“Here. And the bill.” Just as in the consignment store, Lucrita quickly paid and was once again in the car.

“Let’s go home,” she said with a sigh. The trip back to the manor was silent.

At the manor, Zenthella was in a dress. This wasn’t an outstanding event, Zenthella surely had worn dresses before, but this was the first occasion Charlie could remember Zenthella wearing one. And she looked so lovely. It was yellow, with little white flowers embroidering the cuffs and hem, and it fell to her calves. She had painted her lips pink-- again, not unusual-- but she seemed to glow in a way that Charlie had never seen before.

“You look nice,” Lucrita said, praising her daughter. “No hat?”

“Not today, just the dress.”

Lucrita frowned, looking at Zenthella’s feet. “You should wear the white sandals. The strappy ones, you know the pair I’m talking about. They would match nicer.”

Zenthella huffed a breath before heading upstairs. Charlie exchanged a glance with Figaro; the familiar shrugged. “It’s Sunday,” Figaro said by way of explanation.

“I haven’t been to church here in a while,” Lucrita said, fingers drumming the door frame. “Hm. I hope no one has claimed our seats.”

“They weren’t technically our seats to begin with,” Figaro pointed out, only to be waved off by Lucrita.

“Those were definitely our seats. I’m going to get changed, and we’ll leave a little early to make sure we get out seats.” Lucrita disappeared down the hall to her own room to change, leaving Charlie and Figaro alone at last in the foyer.

“You should change,” the familiar pointed out. “We’re going to leave in about half an hour.”

“I thought we were leaving early?”

Figaro rolled his eyes. “Knowing this crowd, half an hour just to get changed is early.”

“What’s up with Zen?” Charlie shifted slightly, looking up at Figaro. “She looks kinda… glowing. Like, something’s shifted about her. Yellows and pinks and everything. I always thought she was more… I don’t know, autumn. She’s full spring right now but it isn’t even really that, something’s just different. And it’s a good kind of weird, but like, it’s weird.”

Figaro chuckled, mussing Charlie’s hair. “Yellow’s her favorite color, so don’t be surprised by that. I think I know what you’re alluding to though, and to that I’ll just say that Zenthella likes to put out appearances just as much as her mother, just in different ways.”

“What do you mean?”

Figaro smiled slightly, looking towards the stairs. “Zenthella left this house with a little bit of drama; Lucrita was desperate for her to take a gap year, while Zen was dedicated to leave this place as soon as possible. There was a little bit of a scene between her and her mother the day Zenthella left for New Chora, but there was also a buildup that the whole town got to be privy to. So now that she’s back in Renville, now that things are smoothed over,”

“It’s important that I show that things are smooth,” Zenthella finished from the stairs. “And if that means wearing these sandals, then that’s what I’ll do. I don’t like to sacrifice myself for other people. But shoes? Shoes are small. And they mean a lot to her.”

Charlie nodded in understanding. They didn’t understand Lucrita. They honestly didn’t think Zenthella understood her mother completely. But they understood Zenthella, and they understood what she meant when said that she was trying, even if she didn’t explicitly say that she was. “I’m gonna change.”

Only when Charlie was gone did Figaro turn back to his master with a wicked grin. “And if Anita Michaels happens to be at church and sees you in all your radiant glory…”

“Shut the hell up,” Zenthella sighed, mouth pulling as she fought down a smile. “I take offense to your insinuation.”

“Even though it may be grounded in fact?”

An actual giggle from Zenthella. “Especially because it’s grounded in fact.” Her face fell. “Seriously though, fuck him.”

Figaro’s face grew somber too. “Yeah. Let’s not dwell though. If we see Anita we see Anita. Her husband doesn’t go to church, and it’s not like her children are still here.”

“I know. It’s one thing to be passive aggressive across the aisle. If she tries to talk to me though…”

“Then I’ll bail you out. But really, and no offense, she’s not going to talk to you.”

“I know,” Zenthella said miserably. “I just really wish she would.”

Lucrita walked up from her room, her hat tucked neatly under her arm as she smoothed her church clothes with her free hand. In her other hand a little black envelope was clenched between bulging knuckles. “Ellie, you and your familiar need to take a look at this. We’ve got mail.”

Zenthella’s brows came together. “Mail?” Lucrita passed the envelope, revealing the seal. “Oh.”

“I don’t know what it could be,” Lucrita said, “though it doesn’t look cheery.”

“Only one way to find out,” Figaro said grimly, taking the letter and popping the seal. The letter inside was handwritten, as was all of the Matriarch’s correspondence, and worryingly long in what appeared to be hurried handwriting. Figaro’s mouth fell open as he read the letter, passing it to Zenthella and Lucrita.

“Sweet God in Heaven,” Lucrita breathed as she absorbed the words before her.

“Two of them did that?”

“Two?”

“Lord.”

“Shit.”

“Language,” Figaro chided.

“Sorry,” said both mother and daughter, both unsure as to who had actually verbalized the thought.

“Do we still go to church?”

“I think now it’s especially important we go to church.”

Zenthella looked to the stairs. “Do we tell Charlie?”

“Not yet,” Lucrita advised. “Let’s go to church.”

Figaro frowned as Zenthella nodded. “We’re keeping it from them?”

“Not for long,” Zenthella promised. “But it solves nothing to go and dump this on them. They’ll all still be dead.”

“Zenthella Thessaly Sandoute,” Lucrita gasped.

“Your middle name is Thessaly,” Charlie asked from the stairs. They had dug up an old bowtie from somewhere and was trying in vain to get it around their neck as they descended.

“My mother wanted an old-fashioned witch’s name,” Zenthella said, discreetly shoving the letter into her purse. “So she went as big as she could.”

“Your great aunt was named Thessaly,” Lucrita reminded her.

“Did you ever even meet my great aunt Thessaly?”

“Well, no, but that’s not really the point.”

“Mother,” Zenthella said before Lucrita could get further down that road, “are we taking your car?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Excellent. Fig, help Charlie figure out that tie situation in the car. We’ve gotta roll out.” As Figaro struggled with Charlie in the backseat, insisting that the witchling was squirming too much to get a proper knot, Zenthella tried to ignore the feeling that the envelope in her purse was gaining weight with time, growing more and more ominous with each second they all pretended that it wasn’t there.


	15. Sweet Talkin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sandoutes make it to church and have some catching up to do.

Zenthella hadn’t been to church in a while. She had known this, on an intellectual level; Zenthella was more than capable of quantifying the years and months and days since she had last attended a service at all, let alone one in this particular church. But she thought she would be fine. It’s not as if she had become illiterate. So long as she could nod her head with the sermon and sing the songs, Zenthella supposed that she would be fine.

Walking into the church tested that conviction almost immediately. Zenthella had forgotten the pomp with which everyone carried themselves. Everyone was drenched in faux-piety and too many conversations were just ways to remind others just how Heaven-bound someone was. There were the genuine, the devout, and Zenthella wanted to talk to them, but they were too wise to get caught in the conversation mob before the service. They had just gone to their seats and sat down, rereading sections of the Scripture or talking amongst themselves.

Speaking of seats, Lucrita was elated to discover that “her” seats were unclaimed, and she sat in them with joy. “I told you,” she kept saying. “All we had to do was get here early and they would be here for us.”

“The Lord truly provides,” Figaro said with a sly grin. Lucrita waved his words off, but he earned a smile from Charlie. Speaking of the witchling, Zenthella had to give her mother some credit. Lucrita could work some wonders in a short time frame. Charlie looked exceedingly well put together, from the fitted coat to the slacks. Their button down was smooth and their collar neat, no doubt by a spell or two from Lucrita when Charlie wasn’t looking. An ironing spell was harmless, but Zenthella would need to ask her not to do it again. Not without Charlie knowing, at least. Their pants weren’t creased, but that didn’t really matter if they were just going to sit all of the service. Charlie was funny to watch, Zenthella thought, as they were placed in new situations. Right now, they were quickly but efficiently looking at everyone in the room, trying to get a hold of where everyone was. Curiosity was evident on their face, though they were doing their best to keep it tamped down.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“Why are so many women wearing hats?”

“Ah.” Zenthella tapped her chin, trying remember why people did that. “I think there’s something in the Bible proper about covering your head, but I have no idea where. Black women, as we do, went above and beyond and just made it a full on thing. Big hats, ribbons, flowers, the whole nine yards.”

“They mean we made it,” Lucrita said from Zenthella’s side, shamelessly joining the conversation. “We overcome and overcame. It’s a little bit of a status thing, a little bit of personal flair.”

“Why don’t you wear one, Zen?”

Zenthella chuckled, even though Charlie’s question was genuine. Lucrita just rolled her eyes. “Sorry for laughing Charlie, I am.”

“Zenthella finds church hats… cumbersome.”

“I look too top heavy,” Zenthella complained, “and I find the whole notion of church hats to be more ingrained in the past than present.”

Lucrita turned to face her daughter directly, her tone interrogating. “You still wear them for Christmas and Easter, right?”

“Every time I go to Christmas or Easter service,” Zenthella confirmed. Lucrita nodded, reassured, and Figaro desperately bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. It had been years since Zenthella had attended a Christmas or Easter service. “Pastor Wayne is coming out, so at this point just smile and mouth along to the songs when we sing.” Charlie nodded, and the service began.

“I’m glad to see some new faces,” Pastor Wayne began, raking his gaze across his congregation. He was an old man, with wisps of white hair flying from his scalp like clouds, and he had been preaching at this church for as long as anyone could remember. “Yep, many new faces. There is always room in the embrace of the Lord for those willing to enter His heart. But, it is with regret that I must say that some have rejected His heart.” The pastor removed his glasses, gently placing them on the stand before him as he thumbed his notes. “Last week I spoke to you about the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. I spoke a warning against unkindness, and I preached that we should work to live our lives as righteously and kindly as we can. We must honor the Lord with our deeds just as we honor our father and mothers and neighbors. We are not a mob, we are a community. We do not seek to harm the angels in our midst, nor do we allow ourselves to fall into depravity. Yet we have. As many of you may know, the Misters Park were found dead three nights ago. Murdered. I know that though many people were kind to them, there was an equal measure of folks who were not. Even if the words of snakes were not venomous, there were those among us who felt no love for the Misters Park, and that shames me. It should shame us all. There are lessons in the Bible, should we look for them. And should we look for them, we should always find love. We seek love to drown hate, not venom to silence diversity. I feel as if I have failed, if for timing than nothing else. So I wish to take a moment of silence for those two men. Pray, if you will.”

The church was filled with the sound of rustling before abruptly falling silent as everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Charlie’s head dipped but their eyes stayed open, eagerly watching everyone around them. Charlie noted how Lucrita’s mouth moved silently as she prayed, and how Zenthella simply looked as if she had fallen asleep. Figaro hadn’t closed his eyes either, and Charlie briefly caught his gaze before moving on. They watched how people moved as their heads stayed down; Charlie particularly liked how Pastor Wayne’s fingers traced his bible as he prayed. What Charlie didn’t know what to make of were the people who didn’t bow their heads at all. There were only a few of them, scattered here and there in the pews. Charlie didn’t want to turn around and obviously look for people behind them, but they could count three people in front of them. One man, one woman in a church hat, and one silver haired woman who had forgone a hat.

“Amen.” Pastor Wayne’s voice rang out in the church, cutting off Charlie’s thoughts. There was a second great rustling as everyone muttered their amens and sat back up, ready to get on with the service.

The service passed without incident. There was singing, so much glorious singing that Charlie thought their ears would ring with it for the rest of their life. Charlie noticed, however, that Zenthella and Lucrita did not join in; the two witches simply mouthed the words of the hymns and prayers. The whole deal with magic and singing and dancing hadn’t quite yet been explained to Charlie, not in any detail, but they could infer the gist of it. And from what they understood, a hymn would be quite the spectacle if a witch like Zenthella or Lucrita allowed their power to slip. The woman up front-- the one without a hat-- didn’t sing either, Charlie noticed. She did look over her shoulder a couple of times though, glaring at someone behind Charlie. They wanted to turn and look, and nearly did, but Zenthella’s firm hand on their knee kept them from craning their head.

“No one likes to be stared at,” she whispered. “Don’t gawk.” Catching her mother’s eye and seeing Lucrita’s tiny smile of approval, Zenthella released Charlie’s knee. Soon enough, it was time for the most time-honored and anticipated-- or dreaded-- part of church: the seemingly endless small talk with what must be the entire congregation. And nothing was more interesting, it seemed, than Zenthella.

“It’s so good to see you again,” an endless line of pastel-hat ladies would say.

“And you’re in… New Chora? Awfully far,” a throng of suit-coated men would say.

As Zenthella mindlessly nodded her way through blase questions, Lucrita was thriving amidst a crowd of people that could only be described as enthralled.

“So,” Lucrita said, reveling in the fact that everyone was hanging on her every word, “I was in Florida, of course, as people of my age do, when I got the most curious letter! You know how my people do things.” If there was a pause, for the briefest of instances, at the reference of witches, then Lucrita didn’t allow it to grow. She plundered on, keeping everyone spellbound by her voice alone. “There’s nothing for months before there’s a pressing emergency that seems to demand absolutely everyone’s attention. So I fly down to the headquarters and meet up with my two daughters, and I start to get an idea, y’all know how I do. So I think to myself, I think how about I get Zenthella and bring her back home for a week? Now, Faith-Anne couldn’t come, poor darling, she has the baby… Oh, of course y’all know that I’m a grandmother! Grandmother to the most precious thing on earth!”

Leaving Lucrita to flex her grandma-bragging muscles, Zenthella managed to slip away from the prying, well-intentioned people for a few glorious seconds. Before she had completely caught her breath though, she was suddenly enveloped in a hug.

“Zenthella! Oh my God it’s been ages since you’ve been home!”

Zenthella blinked, trying to figure out who was crushing her. All she could see was a pair of manicured hands joined around her stomach, but Zenthella would know the vanilla and tobacco perfume anywhere. “Denise?”

“The one and only!” Zenthella spun, seeing her old friend’s face for the first time in years. Denise had gotten older. They all had, but Zethella was still struggling to accept that. The last time Zenthella had seen Denise was high school graduation, only a few blocks from the church they were in now.

“God, you look like a woman,” Zenthella said, pulling Denise into another hug. “I see you online from time to time, but seeing you in front of me with my own eyes is another thing altogether.”

“We grew up,” Denise laughed. She still laughed like a bird, a trilling thing. She still had the mole by her lip and crooked front teeth, and that suited her just fine.

“You look gorgeous,” Zenthella said, walking outside.

“I do my best, and you ain’t looking so bad yourself.”

“So what’s been up with you? How’ve you been doing?”

“Oh.” Denise sat down, rolling her eyes and kicking a stone. “You know Renville. Nothing ever happens here. Same reason you lit right on out of here like a firecracker on the Fourth of July, right?”

Zenthella winced. “Do people still talk about that?”

“That legendary showdown between you and your mother? Teenage Zenthella with your hair all cut off-- on a motorcycle no less-- stopped dead on Main Street by your witch mother illusioning the entire street trying to keep you here? It was the most excitement this damn town’s ever seen-- I’m gonna be telling my great-grandbabies about it.”

“Shit.”

“Potty mouth.” Denise poked Zenthella’s side with a grin before the expression fell of her face, replaced by a look of concern and mild indignation. “So old Anita Michaels has been running her jaw for the past few years every now and then, talking about--”

“Nope.” Zenthella stood, turning away from Denise. “Not doing that today.”

“I was just going to ask,” Denise said in a rush, rising to follow, “are you back on the market?”

“No. Hard no.”

“Not even for that red haired brother who was in the back today?”

“I didn’t see him,” Zenthella said cooly.

“Must’ve heard him though. Tenor voice like an ocean. Jawline like a movie star.” Denise actually sighed, getting a faraway look in her eyes.

“Sounds like you’re the one on the market.”

“Maybe I am,” Denise replied coyly.

“Good luck with that,” Zenthella laughed. “I’m gonna head back to Lucrita.”

“Careful, I thought I saw Anita circling somewhere around her like an old buzzard.”

Waving her thanks, Zenthella entered back into the church through a side door only to immediately be grabbed by Charlie.

“Where did you go?” Their grip on Zenthella’s waist was like iron.

“A brief catch up with a friend from high school,” Zenthella said. “Have you seen Lucrita?”

“I think she was slowly making her way to the main door,” Charlie said. “Just look for the mob; your mom is a good storyteller.”

“Yeah, she is.” Zenthella took one confident step towards the door before stopping dead in her tracks. Anita Michaels was poised directly between Zenthella and the door. It couldn’t be anything but intentional.

“Shit,” Zenthella swore under her breath. “Charlie, this is going to be ugly.”

“Ugly?”

“Just stay at my side and make a break for Lucrita if you get a clear path.” Zenthella’s stride shifted, getting slower, more deliberate. It reminded Charlie of a lion approaching its prey.

“Zenthella? Is that you?” Anita’s voice was sweet, airy. “I almost didn’t recognize you; I wouldn’t have expected to see you here!”

“I’m glad to see you too, Anita,” Zenthella replied in an equally sweet tone. “I see the Lord continues to grant you years.”

“I have my health.”

“As you say.”

“So,” Anita pushed a breath between her teeth as she said the word, her smile sticking to her face. “What brings you back to Renville?”

“Mother needed me to help her with something, and what is family for?”

“So you and your mother are on speaking terms? Last I heard, you two were decidedly not getting along.”

Zenthella’s smile fell. “Things change.”

“If you say so.”

“How’s your family then?”

“About the same as they always are. I’ll let them know you were curious.”

“You do that.” Charlie looked between the two women, tension palpable in the air.

“Do you want to ask about anyone in particular?” Anita’s smile faded away as well, slowly being replaced by a look somewhere between sadness and anger.

“Does anyone ask about me?”

“No.” Anita’s head lifted slightly, though she was still dwarfed by Zenthella’s height. “I’m the only one who still cares to keep up with you, and even then it’s only through little conversation snippets with your mother.”

“Sorry for that,” Zenthella said.

“Well, you’re the one who said things are changing. Maybe you can get Lucrita to start using Facebook again. People of our age have to start making friends with each other.”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Zenthella said, stepping around Anita. “Tell your family I wish them well.”

“All of them?”

Zenthella didn’t reply, instead offering a curt nod. “I like your hat, Mrs. Michaels. Come on, Charlie. Let’s get going.” The duo managed to drag Lucrita away from her crowd of listeners, setting about finding Figaro. The familiar was quickly located sitting on the hood of the car, an unlit cigarette held between two of his fingers.

Lucrita tutted when she saw him and his pinched prize. “Where did you get that horrid thing?”

Figaro shrugged. “Group of old men passed by me, said they were going out smoking together. Tossed me one and asked me to come along.”

“Horrid thing,” Lucrita repeated, snatching the cigarette and burning it completely with a quick flash of magic. “Doesn’t do nothing but bring disease.”

Everyone filed into the car quietly, Charlie and Figaro taking the backseat as Zenthella silently claimed shotgun. As they pulled out of the parking lot and began to head out of town, back to the manor, Lucrita broke the silence.

“Well, I thought that went well. Did everyone else have a good time?”

“It was fine,” Zenthella said, rolling her neck. “About what I expected.”

“I saw you ran into Anita,” Lucrita said, glancing at her daughter before re-focusing on the road.

“Yeah,” Zenthella sighed. “And it was about what I expected.”

“You beat her?”

Zenthella shrugged. “I gave and I got.”

Charlie shrugged from the backseat. “I don’t really know what you two were doing. It just seemed like a really intense conversation to me.”

“It was about what I expected,” Zenthella repeated, reaching to turn on the radio. As music filled the car, everyone settled back into their seats. Lucrita began to think about dinner, Zenthella about Anita, and Figaro about how nice it would be to finally go home. Sitting in their seat, Charlie thought about the elephant in the car: who Anita Michaels was, and what was going on with Zenthella. Charlie didn’t like to ask for things. But it was starting to irk them how no one seemed to tell them anything. And sooner or later they were going to start asking questions.


	16. Stretches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family has a conversation about the past and future.

Charlie was in the solarium. This particular room hadn’t been a part of the original manor, originally there had just been an external patio situated on the eastern side of the house, and it was from this patio that, for generations, the sunrise had been observed. But the Sandoutes were witches. It would be remiss, arrogant, and grossly incorrect to say that in the many, many years that the family had inhabited the manor there had been no remodeling. Some remodeling was made necessary after an accidental fire grew too big to be controlled. Some remodeling was done just for fun, or because a particular head of the family had wanted the house to serve a specific function. The result was the strange little house that Charlie wasn’t even sure qualified to be a manor, despite the magnificent chandelier in the foyer, despite the carved banisters, despite the many rooms and fireplaces.

There was a long hallway that bisected the house, running from the front door and foyer to the very back of the house, to the living room. The hallway was the root of the house, with every other room of the ground floor branching out from it in some way. The kitchen and living room was the terminus, but along the way was the formal dining room-- adjacent to the kitchen-- the stairs to the basement-- or was it a cellar? Charlie didn’t know the difference-- and a full bathroom. It escaped Charlie, why there needed to be a full bathroom downstairs when, realistically, no one would ever need the ornate tub that occupied one side of the room. Charlie just assumed that there was an arcane witch-related reason and simply moved on. A library that had long ago been semi-converted into an office occupied the front left corner of the manor, just off the foyer, leaving just one other door downstairs unaccounted. It was on the west side of the hall, situated between the library and living room-- or, as Lucrita always called it, the family room-- and was unlike most every other door on that floor. Every exterior entrance, save the screen door in the back of the kitchen, was a glass French-style double door. Even inside the house, French doors separated the library from the foyer, the foyer from the hall, the hall from the dining room, and the dining room from the kitchen. The only other wooden single door on the entire ground floor was to the bathroom, and Charlie suspected that this mystery door had more than a toilet behind it.

Despite the mysteries of the ground floor, to say nothing of the upstairs, attic, or cellar, Charlie was in the solarium. It was a glass enclosure that ran the eastern length of the house, with a variety of plants growing throughout. Herbs and other such plants grew in abundance towards the back of of the solarium, in what the Sandoutes affectionately dubbed the greenhouse, where easy access to the kitchen allowed quick transference from dirt to dish. Towards the front of the house the solarium became decidedly more cosy, with hanging plants swaying in the breeze of a perpetually spinning fan as wire couches with overstuffed cushions sat beside garden stools and similarly wrought coffee tables. The was a rug in the center of the long glass room, bridging the two attitudes, and it was on there that Charlie was slowly stretching their body to its limits. They hadn’t been to dance in weeks and it was starting to show. Their splits hadn’t ever been perfect, but they were starting to get farther and farther away from the ground each time they tried to go down, and that was annoying. Their back was getting tighter too, and that was frustrating because Charlie hadn’t even done anything to irritate it. So Charlie had declared today to be for dancing and stretching and working themself back to where they were before Zenthella had whisked them away.

“That looks painful,” Figaro noted, leaning against the door to the kitchen. His hair was down, and he padded on bare feet to a couch before curling up into it. Looking at Charlie, the familiar could only guess that the witchling was trying to dislocate their hips. It was for the better that Figaro didn’t dance.

“It’s not bad,” Charlie said, switching their legs to stretch their other side. “I’m getting out of practice. I needed to start logging more hours at the studio, not less.” The witchling paused, stomach twisting. “But I can keep it up here, until we get back,” Charlie quickly said. “I really like it here! But…”

“You’re away. It’s an imposition.” Figaro watched the fan circle overhead. “Yeah. This wasn’t really planned, it just all kinda happened. And unfortunately, life does that.”

“I don’t love it with my whole heart,” Charlie admitted, standing up. Rolling their shoulders, they began to stretch their core and back. “I wish we were still in New Chora.”

“Me too kid. But you do like it here?” Realistically, there was nothing that could be done even if Charlie hated every second of Renville. It wasn’t as if they could take care of themself at New Chora for an indeterminate amount of time, and Barley was too frequently in and out of the city on trips or assignments to take care of the witchling.

“It’s nice,” Charlie said, gesturing to the land around the house. “Lots of trees, we don’t really have anything like this at home, even on the Greenway. I like how everything rambles together, and how the sunsets paint the sky.”

Figaro paused from brushing his hair; Charlie didn’t know where the brush had come from or for how long the familiar had been working on it. “Would you like to stay here? The house is for Zenthella’s taking, if she wants it.”

“I will follow Zen’s lead,” Charlie said, voice small. “I’m flexible, I can live wherever and do as I’m told.”

“But what do you want?”

“I don’t,” Charlie stumbled on the words. “I don’t really care. Either or, I can live wherever. Whatever works best for you two.”

Figaro sat the brush down, pulling his hair up. “Charlie.”

“I can text Davie from here; I’ve been doing that since day one.”

“Davie’s your friend from dance, right? The blonde kid?”

Charlie gave the familiar a flat look. “You know who he is.”

Figaro laughed, remembering the awkwardness of Charlie and Davie’s first encounter. Davie had been such a mess, and Charlie hadn’t really given him any leeway. “Yeah, I do. You and Zen still need to work out getting him to our place.”

“We’ll get to it eventually,” Charlie said. “It’s not exactly the highest priority right now though, is it? I’m a notch or two below the whole thing with Monks and whatever happened in Australia and all that.”

Figaro’s eyes narrowed for only a second, frowning at the witchling before shaking his head slightly. “You know about Australia?”

“The whole world knows about Australia, Fig. It’s on the normal news and everything.”

Figaro regarded the witchling for a moment. Figaro was far from an authority in anything; technically a familiar should always defer to their witch, in this case, to Zenthella. And if everyone was following full witch customs and protocol, Zenthella should defer to Lucrita. This would hold true from big things like information about Australia all the way down to little things like who should sit where at a table. So as Figaro regarded the witchling, he carefully considered all that protocol, and quickly decided that it wasn’t worth it. He could answer to Zenthella later. “Ask me about Australia. Ask me about anything. I won’t lie.”

Charlie made a face, coming to a stop. “You’re just going to tell me?”

“Yeah.”

Figaro didn’t seem to be lying. And that wasn’t unusual. Figaro didn’t, as a general rule, lie. But Charlie had gotten used to half truths and concealed discretions. They saw the opportunity before them. Figaro was genuine. “What happened in Australia?”

“Two Inertial Monks attacked a group of witch refugees.”

“Why?”

“Because we-- the Coventiums-- are at war with the Grand Order of Inertial Monks, to some degree or another.”

Charlie chewed their lip. This was the part where things were fuzzy. “How? And why?”

Figaro took a moment, nodding his head as the organized his answer. “The Order declared war on the Coventium Europe after a witch was caught in Italy violating several clauses of the Seventh Day Accords by a pair of Inertial Monks. Word is the Coventium Europe was… snippy, with the Order. The Order didn’t really appreciate that, seized upon the caveats and vague wording of the Seventh Day Accords and declared war. That’s the why,” Figaro said, beginning to braid his hair. “The how is a little more tricky. It’s touch and go. People vanish out of their homes in the middle of the night. Groups of people, like in Australia, get attacked. And witches hit back; that’s what made Australia so bad. The place is absolutely scorched because both sides really dug in. And if you’re looking at numbers, we’re winning. Witches have at least one confirmed kill, one of the Monks in Green. We think there may have been another fatality, but we don’t know. A big problem is that witches are intentionally disturbing natural balances and cycles in attempts to antagonize the Order or draw Inertial Monks into traps. It's a gross misuse of magic, but in wartime they're getting away with it. And all this, of course, isn't even beginning to touch the numbers game Quixival is playing.”

“There are a lot fewer of them then there are of us,” Charlie mused, “but they can get in and out fast.”

“Yeah. That’s what happened to the Casa del Arbol a little while before we came here.”

“That’s exactly why we came here,” Zenthella clarified, making her familiar and witchling start. It was uncanny, her ability to lurk in doorways and enter conversations. Entirely unfair and not unimpressive. She had five terrariums floating before here, her batons keeping them steady. With a slight flourish the glass orbs gently hooked themselves into some of the netting that hung along the top of the greenhouse. Once they were secure, Zenthella made her way between them, tapping each terrarium and giving each herb a little magical incentive to grow. Zenthella cast a look out of the corner of her eye and noted that the other two had ceased what they were doing to watch her and her gardening. She shook her head and frowned, yet her eyes smiled. Lucrita wasn’t the only one who could hold an audience captive. “We came here because my mother was directly worried that our current wards and protections wouldn’t stand to an attack by the monks. We were vulnerable, and all the work we’ve done has, by this point, gotten us to full protections. We’re safe as houses here.”

Figaro snorted. “I’ve always hated that phrase.”

“It is what it is.” Zenthella flicked her batons once more, though Charlie couldn’t tell what she had done. Had they looked a little harder, they would have seen the hairs on Figaro’s arms and neck stand up. But they didn’t look. “We need to have a little talk.”

Figaro’s ears perked, and Charlie frowned slightly. “Oh?” The last time Charlie had heard that phrase, Figaro had trapped them in an absolutely terrifying conversation about relationships and growing up. Their ears were still burning.

“That gala I was invited to,” Zenthella elaborated, and Charlie let out a sigh of relief. “It’s getting closer and closer as spring starts to decline into summer.” To be honest, Charlie had completely forgotten about the gala invitation. It wasn’t really their business to keep up with, in fairness, but they berated themselves for allowing it to slip their mind. Details mattered. Laxness would give to stupidity if they weren’t careful.

“It’s not for another few weeks.” Figaro made a face. “We should be well back at home by then, right?”

“Well…” As Zenthella drew out the word her little conversation became apparent. The question was just how long she was going to be able to keep her poker face. “Lucrita wants us around a little while longer.”

“We’ve been here a month,” Figaro pointed out. “How much longer does she want us?”

“Well, there’s still a few projects to be done.”

Figaro shook his head. “Those very poisonous should-not-be-grown flowers are all back around the house like your family likes them. The plants in here,” Figaro waved to the various pots in the solarium and greenhouse,” are doing spectacular. The vegetable beds out back are doing great. The tomato and grape vines are flourishing, as is the apple tree at the edge of the graveyard. We planted all those and y’all spelled them to perfection. Speaking of the graveyard, we cleaned your family’s tombs and headstones and Lucrita gave Charlie a walking tour of the family history. You and your mother did a top down clean of the place, letting me and Charlie help out here and there, but at this point Zenthella, really? What else is there?”

“Lucrita was saying something about a pool,” Zenthella muttered.

“Nope.” Figaro shook his head. “Not why we’re staying.”

Zenthella’s poker face folded. “It’s safe here. I like having us here where we know we won’t end up like the Casa del Arbol. And… it’s been easy, with Lucrita. We haven’t really fought at all in the month we’ve been here.”

“You grew up,” Figaro said softly. “Maturity smooths over even the roughest edges.”

“Oh, don’t say that.” Zenthella waved for her family to follow her outside. “I’m not allowed to grow up. I have to stay young and edgy.”

Figaro shook his head in mock disappointment. “Young, edgy, and wants to put in a swimming pool for her mother. Truly a rebel for the ages.” That got a giggle out of Charlie.

Lucrita stood on the back porch, looking to the world like a queen observing her domain. “I think the pool would look nice there,” she said without glancing at Zenthella. She didn’t point to the spot she was seeing either, but that didn’t matter. The raised beds were a short distance away from the house, lining a small grassy square just off the house. Beyond the beds the yard had a little bit of slope and bump, but there was one relatively flat patch of grass that could made for a lovely pool site.

“That would work well,” Zenthella admitted. “It’s a little close to the tree line, how are you going to protect it from leaves and such?”

“Magic,” Lucrita scoffed. “Did you think we were going to build a normal pool?”

“Heaven forbid.” Zenthella and Fig managed synchronized their eyerolls, sharing a smile.

“Charlie, if you could stake out the corners, Ellie and I will go inside and start thinking up what runes we’ll want to charm the thing with.” Lucrita stood with her arms akimbo, finally turning to smile at her daughter. “Come on now, time’s short.” It wasn’t though, and she knew it. It was what fed her smile. For the first time, Lucrita didn’t feel like time with her daughter was gunpowder slipping through an hourglass just waiting to go off. Time stretched out before them, and she rather liked that. Zenthella, also for the first time, didn’t disagree.


	17. Thirty Six Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Figaro spends some time with people and some time alone.

It was early in the morning. Zenthella had decided that she and Charlie should leave early, try to beat the traffic. Get back to New Chora before lunch, hopefully. They tended to get snared on I-40 around the Winston-Salem and Greensboro area, but sometimes the pattern was just right and they squeezed past the morning commuters. They needed it to be just right; Zenthella had waited until the last minute to leave. A far cry from her annoyance when they had all first come down to Renville. But things change. Figaro silently watched Zenthella’s motorcycle take off down the long driveway, slowly disappearing as she made the turn onto the main road, heading away once again from Sandoute Manor. Charlie clung to her back, their jacket flapping in the wind as the pair peeled away. It was starting to get warmer, soon they would have to shed their perpetual hoodie. Figaro didn’t know what Charlie would wear then; he had only ever seen Charlie in bulky, form hiding clothes. Summer could be difficult. The morning had been difficult; Charlie was not a morning person.

“They’re quite a pair, aren’t they?” Lucrita was leaning against the doorframe, watching Figaro watch Zenthella. A coffee cup was clasped between her hands, warming her more than waking her up. Lucrita drank decaf. It was better for her heart.

Figaro turned. “Zen and Charlie?” Lucrita nodded. “Yeah, they’re something.”

“She told me about finding them. About how y’all’re’nt sure if you’re going to keep them for long.”

Figaro made a face. “Triple contractions?”

“Double,” Lucrita said with a frown. “Down here,‘y’all’ is a single word.”

“Why not just say ‘y’all aren’t?’”

It was Lucrita’s point to make a face. “You’ve spent too much time up north. Don’t act like you don’t know where you came from. I’ll damn well penta-contract if I so choose, if you’ll pardon my language.”

Figaro quickly realized that this was a hill Lucrita was ready to die on, and he held up his hands in defeat. “Yeah,” he said, tone growing more serious as he refocused. “Charlie’s a funny situation. I don’t think they need to be taken any time soon, if at all, but ultimately it’s Quixival’s decision.”

Lucrita crossed her arms, coffee cup perilously tilting. By the grace of God and God alone, none spilled. “I may send Wolfgang to the estate, put in my two cents.”

Figaro nodded. “We’d appreciate that.” Internally, Figaro raised an eyebrow. No one had seen hide nor hair of Wolfgang the entire time they had been with Lucrita. Lucrita had brushed it off the only time Zenthella had asked about him, saying that the familiar was at the Estate working with Mavetto on some project, but Zenthella seemed suspicious. Figaro didn’t care; he never had gotten along with Wolfgang in the first place. The Sandoute family had used the same lineage of Alaskan Malamute for generations, and the Sandoute familiars seemed just as prone to family drama as the Sandoutes themselves.

“So, you’ll be here for just a little while longer.” Lucrita nodded at Figaro and walked back inside, apparently having nothing else to say to the familiar. Figaro just shook his head. Lucrita wasn’t going to change as she aged, that was becoming more and more apparent each and every day.

Figaro followed after her, moving past the suitcases at the door to where Lucrita was fumbling on a massive keyring. “What’ll you do while we’re gone?”

“This and that,” Lucrita said distractedly, trying a variety of keys before settling on one. It was iron, Figaro noted. “Y’all’ll be back before too long.” Figaro shadowed Lucrita as she stepped into the interior grotto, clenching his teeth as he crossed through the doorway. Figaro loved the room, but he hated entering; the threshold made his skin prickle and hair stand up, and he could feel the energy all too much in his teeth and eyes and heart.

The chunks of crystal dominated the center of the room, as they always did, glowing today a rosy color. Figaro rather liked that. It seemed to have grown a little; little rose colored pebbles had begun to push up against floorboards that had long since given way to dirt and earth. The crown molding was overtaken by vines, and Figaro could feel running water beneath them, probably connected to the warped tree growing in the corner, its branches zig zagging across the ceiling and mingling amidst the ivy.

“You have fireflies,” Figaro noted. “Those are new.”

Lucrita nodded. “Introduced them a while ago, just before going away actually. I was tickled pink that they were still here.” Lucrita hunched, pulling something from one of the raised beds that wove around the room. A flower of some sort. Dark outside, red insides. Probably more dangerous than the nightshade that grew around the perimeter of the house. “I’m going to see Euphegenia tomorrow.”

That was abrupt. “Your mother in law?”

Lucrita gave an annoyed nod. “How many other Euphegenias do I expect you to know?”

“I didn’t know you two still talked.”

Lucrita offered a shrug. “She’s old, Figaro. Lonely. I know I’d want people to talk to me when I’m old. She sits alone in that little house, dusting God knows what, so I go over every now and again and we have tea.”

“Do you take your tea service?” This was a serious question. Lucrita’s fondness for silver and china was known through Renville; it wasn’t unheard of for local antique shops to call Lucrita and give her first dibs if they got in pieces they suspected she would collect.

“No.” Lucrita had gotten quiet, looking at the root she was prying from the ground. “We use hers.”

“I didn’t know she had one.”

Lucrita nodded. “She’s proud of it.” Oh. There it was. The room was silent for a moment, the silent sounds of bugs and plants filling the air. “So I’ll be going over to Alfredsboro soon.” Lucrita broke the silence easily, as if it had never been there at all. “Then I have to write a letter to Malia. I’m going to encourage her to challenge her father as the head of the Rippled Sandoutes.”

Figaro took the basket Lucrita suddenly thrust in his arms-- he had no idea where the basket had come from. “Why? I thought the whole idea of Zenthella taking the Madame title was to minimize family infighting.”

Lucrita sighed, and for a second Figaro could see just how old she was, how tired. Then she straightened and the lines vanished. Figaro thought for a moment he felt a slight snap of power. “I don’t want Zenthella to have to face down the entire Sandoute family tree, but the Rippled Sandoutes can be trouble. My niece has a good head on her shoulders. And she’s a good witch.”

“Not as good as Zenthella,” Figaro pointed out. Lucrita offered a tight smile and a tighter nod. “But she still doesn’t want the title.” Then it dawned on him. “Which is why you’re positioning Malia.”

“I can’t force Zenthella into something she doesn’t want.” Lucrita turned to the door. “I learned that a long time ago. I don’t always remember it, but at least I know it now.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

Lucrita pulled the door behind them. “Plans change. If Zenthella takes the title, she can defeat Malia if there’s a challenge. If Zenthella refuses, I can defer to Malia.”

“Assuming Malia challenges Joseph.”

“If she doesn’t, then it’ll be up to Zenthella to put him down if needed. But I think Malia’s going to step up.”

“Faith’s getting screwed over either way.”

“Faith-Anne will make peace with it.”

Figaro frowned. “How do you know? What if this is one more little thing to resent? I’m sure she knows that you’ve hosted us here for these weeks without inviting her once.”

Lucrita gave Figaro a long look. “I know my daughters.” With a click, the door was once again locked. “I promise we’ll all get through this no worse for wear.” Lucrita made her way to the kitchen, dropping her basket of pickings on the counter before making her way into the greenhouse. Not for the first time, Figaro wondered just how much Lucrita did on a daily basis, and just how much credit she earned for her efforts and successes. For all the bustle and groaning her style of leading may cause, the fact that the Sandoute family remained together was single-handedly Lucrita’s doing. And no one forgot it, even if no one said it.

Lucrita strode back into the kitchen with a fist full of something, tapping a baton against the doorframe. At once, the kitchen came alive, runes lighting up along the walls as pots and pans and spoons began to move on their own.

“What are you cooking up today?”

“A joint pain tonic for Euphegenia. Her knees are bothering her. She spends too much time up dusting and cleaning, and then she spends too much time in that horrible chair of hers.” Lucrita held out a hand, and a knife obediently flew into her grasp. A cutting board slid down the counter as she took the basket from Figaro.

“Have you considered trying to move her somewhere people can take care of her?”

Lucrita snorted. “You know she’ll be dead before she leaves that house. It was her daddy’s home, and it was Henry’s home, and it’s her home.”

“What’ll happen to it when she passes?”

Lucrita shrugged, knife beating a quick tempo against the cutting board. “It’ll be mine. I could renovate it, rent it out. Offer it to the Senate.”

“She would hate that.”

“She’d be dead.” Lucrita dumped the diced flower into a pressure cooker, setting into some sort of root with a carrot peeler. “If she wants to haunt me she can be my guest.”

Figaro nodded, withdrawing from the kitchen and leaving Lucrita to her own devices. He strolled out the back door, walking past the new pool, past the fruit trees that served as the back border of the Manor property, and Figaro slowly began to wander up the path to the family cemetery. He hadn’t been in ages; Figaro half wondered if it would be entirely overgrown. There was no telling how long it had been since somebody had visited.

The path wove back and forth, the dirt softly crunching under each step. Up ahead, the gate. Figaro turned to the left, looking down at the manor from the little bluff. It looked good from here. Fresh paint, revitalized flowers. Light reflected off the pool, dazzling the backyard. The raised beds seemed to be flourishing, and the front drive had been neatly manicured back to something respectable. What had been dilapidated was in better repair.

Figaro turned back to the gate, freezing for a moment as something cold turned his stomach. “Walking over graves,” he said to himself, and her moved forward. He could feel the earth beneath him as he padded into the graveyard, could feel how saturated it was with the memory of so many witches. But there were quiet spots. There-- Henry’s grave. Figaro had always liked Zenthella’s father. He was always so kind, with such a wide smile. There it was again, that feeling of cold in the pit of Figaro’s stomach. Walking on graves, he supposed.

Figaro didn’t really keep track of time while he was in the graveyard. He just wandered deeper and deeper, until he came to the end, to the grave of Cyrus Sandoute. It was small, but it was the root of everything that stretched behind Figaro. The grave seemed to pulse, every so slightly, as if Cyrus’ heart still beat despite his flesh long since decaying. As if his distinct spirit still ran through the ground. It beat to the house and to the town, towards the church, to the ley line that so many generations of Sandoute had protected. The same ley line that ran through this graveyard. That ran to the crystal cluster in the darkest corner of Sandoute Manor.

Then Renville Ley Line was an orphan line, meaning there was no other ley line that connected it to anything else. It was tiny, so far as ley lines went, running only from the Renville Church to the Manor. And it was because of this line that the Sandoutes had originally managed to get a spot on the Coventium America Senate. The orphan line was important, and Figaro could feel it deep to his bones. A pull, from the house. Figaro stood from where he had kneeled by Cyrus’ grave-- funny, he hadn’t even been aware he had gone down. Then he began the path home.

Lucrita was standing by the back door, cordless phone in hand. “It’s Ellie.” Figaro just nodded. He had felt the tug several times as he walked back, Zenthella gently urging him to return to her side. Figaro took the luggage from where it sat by the door, nodded at Lucrita, and then braced himself for the sensation of warping across space to Zenthella.

Blinking slightly, Figaro breathed in the familiar smell of home. Zenthella was on the couch, Charlie was nowhere to be seen. “You rang?”

“Glad to see you,” Zenthella said, patting the seat beside her.

“How was the drive?”

“Not bad.” Zenthella sent a sideways glance towards the table by the front door. “We have a mountain of mail.”

“I’m sure.” It never did seem to stop, even if they tried to put a hold on it.

“And Barley.” Zenthella ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking to herself. “Barley ran into some trouble while we were gone. Alchemy.”

“Did he get it taken care of?”

“Sort of.” That surprised Figaro. Barley and Cecily didn’t do things by halves. “It was messy,” Zenthella continued, “and he said there was a third party involved. A real alchemist, not just the petty wannabe he was originally dealing with.”

Figaro just nodded, looking at all the ways Zenthella was silently screaming out her stress. “Well, we’ll deal with it when we deal with it. You have a party tomorrow to think about. What’ll you wear?”

“The lilac,” Zenthella said immediately. “The one with the exposed midriff and the silver accents.”

“Not the yellow? You love yellow.”

“It’s a masquerade theme,” Zenthella said, annoyance coloring her voice. She hated masks. “I have a silver mask I can tolerate that’ll match the accents.”

“Fair. What will Charlie wear?”

“Is Charlie going?”

Figaro considered. “I think they should. If only so I can sneak them champagne. Also, who would watch them if they didn’t go?”

Zenthella frowned. “They’re old enough to stay the night here. But Charlie can choose for themself tomorrow morning. Either way, they said something about a shawl, so we’ll see.”

Figaro nodded. “We’ll see.” Twenty nine hours until the gala.


	18. The New Chora Humanities Gala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sandoutes attend a very fancy party and things get interesting.

Charlie held their phone tightly in their hand, leading Zenthella and Figaro through a crowd. The Sandoutes had only just arrived at the New Chora Humanities Gala when Charlie took the lead, forcing Zenthella and Figaro to follow them just to keep them from getting lost in the crowd.

“He said he’s by the drink table closest to the door,” Charlie said, expectantly looking to Figaro. The familiar frowned, then realized that Charlie needed him as a periscope.

“That way, kiddo.” Figaro popped a finger gun in the right direction, and Charlie was off. Figaro leaned into his master’s ear as he followed after the hustling witchling. “You ready to finally meet the human on the other end of Charlie’s phone?”

Zenthella shrugged, adjusting her mask. “I’m sure he’s fine. Charlie has good taste in people, and it’s obvious they like Davie.” Her fingers tugged at the edges of her mask for a moment more before she gave up, pulling it off completely and letting it hang around her neck.

“That was fast to come off.” It had been inevitable; Zenthella had been fidgeting with the silver starburst mask from the moment it had been tied.

“I hate masks,” she said flatly, waving a hand in the air. “It’s like, just show me your face.” The crowd parted again, and Zenthella could see Charlie getting crushed into some blonde boy’s hug. “This is him, I assume.” The famous Davie, who Charlie had met at dance and who had made a solid home in the background of Charlie’s life. Davie was, by Zenthella’s reckoning, Charlie’s best friend, even if the majority of their relationship took place over text and video chat. That probably needed to change. Zenthella and Figaro awkwardly moved towards Charlie, their path blocked by a pair who seemingly had no self-awareness. The two were engrossed in talking about some sort of Alaskan something, forcing Zenthella and Figaro to completely navigate around a table to catch back up to the witchling.

“Rich people,” Figaro muttered. “Oblivious.”

“We’re only a step or two away from the Sandoute estate and inheritance,” Zenthella grimly reminded him. “Whatever that’s worth at this point.”

“Damn,” Figaro said, and for a second Zenthella thought he was actively considering the ramifications of Lucrita’s inevitable demise. Then she looked ahead, and saw what Figaro saw. Charlie was locked in conversation with some woman, and they were floundering.

“My family,” Charlie was saying, backing up ever so slightly. And there Figaro was, catching them with a hand on their shoulder.

“I’m Figaro.” Figaro internally smiled as he felt Charlie relax into the comfortable touch. Externally, he was staring down some man who was standing next to Davie. The man was unlawfully handsome, but something in his gaze made Figaro uncomfortable. And if Figaro was unnerved, Charlie must be absolutely spooked.

Zenthella moved in shoulder to shoulder with her familiar. “And I am Dappled Zenthella Sandoute.” Zenthella reached out her hand to the woman, whom she had pretty much pegged as Davie’s mother, and shook it. Davie’s mother was wearing long, soft white gloves that tickled against Zenthella’s hand. Davie’s mother looked at Zenthella warily, as if she was trying to get a reading on Zenthella. It just made Zenthella wonder what Davie had or hadn’t told his mother. If she knew that Zenthella was a witch, that Charlie was a witchling. If she cared.

“You’re Mrs. Sandoute? Charlie’s mother?”

Internally, Figaro winced. It wasn’t like Zenthella was wearing a ring.

“Ms. Sandoute, and yes, I-- I’m their guardian. You’re Ms. Pearson?”

“Dr. Pearson.” It was Zenthella’s turn to wince.

Moving to Charlie’s side, Davie slightly tugged on Charlie’s shawl. They had opted for the swath of black fabric over a traditional suit jacket; it helped cover them a little better, and it had a nice hood. Plus, they felt that they looked cute in it. And Charlie liked to be cute. “Do you want to go somewhere? The adults are doing that awkward adult thing.” Charlie didn’t say anything to Davie’s suggestion, they wanted to watch one more volley in this tragic tennis match. In an act of compassion to Davie, they did allow him to maneuver them to the edge of the group. Figaro let them go, eyeing them as they inched away.

“Doctor.” Zenthella smiled, both in apology and to fill the space as she tried to make small talk with this woman. She assumed Dr. Pearson was lovely. But Zenthella was in introvert by nature, and she had burned through most of her social energy just getting into the building. “Is that why you’re here, for medical service?” There it was, peak awkwardness. Zenthella making small talk.

“Let’s go,” Charlie whispered into Davie’s ear, and the pair was off. Charlie could almost feel Zenthella’s eyes on them as they left.

“Zen and mom seem to get along,” Davie said lightly. “In the polite way adults do.”

“Zen’s exhausted.” Charlie shook their head. “We needed to have come home a day or two earlier, to give her time to rest. She’s going to burn out.”

“I thought you said she was an eternal flame type?”

“She acts like she is.” Charlie sighed, dodging by a pair admiring some cream colored rock. “But this whole thing with her mom is just a mess. And now she’s here and making small talk and it’s gonna be a mess because she’s just tired.”

“I’m sure it’ll work out though.” Davie went quiet, and Charlie could imagine why. Charlie knew that their position was in no way secure. They lived with Zen and Fig on the Matriarch’s whim. And a single decision by Zenthella could take them from the life they’ve built here. Davie knew it too.

“How’s your mom? She looks lovely by the way.” Dr. Pearson had a long, rose colored dress that she had paired with long off-white gloves and an eggshell mask. It was absolutely regal and Charlie was in awe.

“She’s stressed,” Davie admitted, watching a waiter carry a tray of champagne. “This is a big night for her. The clinic she runs needs more funding, and this absolute skeeze of a a developer, Percival… I’ve told you about Percival, right?” Charlie nodded, Davie had ranted on end about Percival Equitan, a city councilman and all around scumbag. “Anyway, he’s here, and--” Davie fell silent as someone approached.

“Davie.” It was the handsome man, the one Davie and his mom had been standing with. He also seemed to be intent on drinking a lot, something that Charlie wasn’t exactly sure they liked. They couldn’t pin it down, but watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass made something in Charlie’s stomach clench. The man looked at Charlie and frowned. He had spoken with Charlie briefly before Zenthella and Figaro had caught up with them, and while there had been nothing unsettling about the brief interaction, he nevertheless left Charlie deeply unsettled.

“Ah.” Davie smiled, and Charlie felt him tense up. “What’s up?”

“You just left suddenly.” The man downed the rest of his drink, pivoting and grabbing another from some passing tray. “It’s ridiculous, how easy it is to get these,” he commented, tapping  his glass. Really, astounding. Don’t people worry about poison anymore?”

“We will now,” Davie said, eyeing the drink. “Did mom send you to check on us?”

“Yeah, but not in a creepy way. The familiar is following you two too.”

Charlie looked over the man’s shoulder, seeing Figaro lurking by a table, keeping a discreet eye on the pair from a respectable distance. Unlike this guy, who had just walked up.

“Well, we’re okay,” Davie said, taking Charlie by the elbow and slightly steering them behind him. “You can head somewhere else.”

“Don’t want you getting in any trouble though,” the man said with a grin.

“Jas, what kind of trouble do you think we can get in? There are a bajillion eyes here.”

“I’m a big believer in vibes,” Jas said, turning to Charlie as if Davie hadn’t spoken. “And I just feel like you two are happening. But there’re so many things happening.” Jas finished his drink, looking for another. Jas abruptly turned to Charlie, fixing them with his green gaze. “Why did you say your name was Charlie again?” He had asked earlier, before Zenthella had caught up with them, what Charlie’s name was. Apparently he was too drunk to process Charlie’s name correctly.

“Because it is,” Charlie said, appreciating Davie keeping them behind him.

“Hm. I--” Jas froze, head swiveling. “I need to get back to Jeanette.”

Davie’s hand clenched on Charlie’s arm, though they didn’t think he realized he had contracted. “Is mom okay?”

“Yes, I just need… It’s a vibe, Davie. I need to head over there.” Then he was gone, heading back to Jeanette and Zenthella. Davie sighed as he took another drink on the way.

“Who is he, exactly?”

Davie winced. “He’s my mom’s… partner. I guess that’s the best word for it. He’s staying with us.”

“Is he always like this?”

“Um, not really. He doesn’t really tolerate alcohol, and he said he wants to get drunk tonight, but he’s acting weirder than the drinks account for. I don’t know what it is. But let’s just… keep going. So. Now that he’s gone, what’s the big gossip? What’s happening in witch world?” The two had ducked into a little alcove off the ballroom, and the teens sat on the floor, facing each other. There didn’t seem to be any problems as for their being there, it wasn’t like there were any security guards to shoo them away. Actually, Charlie was surprised by how minimal security seemed, given how high profile the night was.

“Well, the witches are at war. You know that.” Davie nodded. He did know that, from all of Charlie’s ramblings.

“And you said that thing in Australia was part of it?”

“Yeah. The whole thing’s kinda in a lull right now, and we don’t know what’s gonna happen next. Zen was talking to Aunt Faith on the phone, and she said the Coventium Europe ambassador is staying longer than expected, and she may stay in New Chora for a while. But that was ages ago now, so we’re all just kinda hunting for the guy who started all of this in the first place.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Charlie nodded, adjusting their domino mask. They liked having Davie’s attention like this, the singular devotion a storyteller received. It was one of the few spotlights Charlie was comfortable in. “Um, Barley may have a lead on an alchemist! That’s super cool!” Charlie’s face got very serious, putting a finger over Davie’s lips. “But if you ever mention it I’ll have to kill you. It’s very secret.”

Davie’s eyes were wide, both at the privilege of knowing this information and at the danger of knowing. “Really?”

“Well, maybe not kill you. But I could cut out your tongue.”

“With what sword? You hate your instrument thing.”

Charlie bit their lip. It was a truth they had alluded to once, and Davie had picked up on it. “I don’t hate it…”

“You just don’t like magic.” There was a pause, then Davie decided to change the subject. “So, how does one hunt alchemists?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about them, except that it’s a magic anyone could teach themselves. I guess that’s what makes them dangerous, they could be anyone.”

“You mean I could learn alchemy?”

Charlie laughed, shaking their head. “No, all the knowledge of alchemy was lost. Plus, I’d have to hunt you down.” Their face grew dramatically serious. “And then I really would have to kill you.”

Davie frowned. “Alchemy is punishable by death? That’s messed up.”

Charlie looked past Davie into the crowd. “Where’s Figaro?”

Davie lightly punched Charlie’s arm, pulling back quickly as Charlie flinched. “Sorry. Sorry. But don’t just change the subject.”

“Really,” Charlie said, standing, “where did Figaro go? He’s not watching us anymore.”

“You’re complaining that we lost our babysitter?” Davie had stood up too, slightly worried that Charlie seemed so perturbed.

“It just means something drew him away from us. Something more important. I don’t like it.”

“Vain much?”

“Paranoid,” Charlie said, heading back to where the adults were.

 ---

“He’s just so greasy,” Jeanette was saying as Charlie and Davie approached their table. “It’s like he gets off having people under his thumb. But I’m not squirming.”

“Don’t squirm,” Zenthella said, raising her glass slightly. “Don’t budge an inch for him. He sounds awful. And from what I just heard, he is.”

“You saw him!” Jeanette turned to Davie. “Isn’t Percival the worst?”

“Oh God, he’s awful,” Davie said, immediately the choir to his mother’s gospel.

“He was just here,” Jeanette said, drumming her fingers on the table. “Oozing about the speech he’s going to give tonight.”

“Glad to see you two back,” Zenthella said as Charlie slid into a chair.

“Where’s Figaro?”

“He had to take Jeanette’s friend to a bathroom. Fig should be back soon.” Charlie nodded, settling in for small talk. Dinner was served, and then it was time for the actual award portion of the evening, the reason everyone was here.

A man in a white suit stepped up to the microphone, tapping it slightly. “Will all honorees step up to the front?” There was a great rustling of fabric as people made their way up to the stage, Zenthella and Dr. Pearson included. “For those of you who do not know, my name is Percival Equitan. I am a city councilperson, and I was so honored when the mayor asked me to speak.” Percival turned from the mic, coughing into a handkerchief. “I do not want to take up too much time, so I will attempt to be succinct.”

“Code for ‘time for me to talk too much,’” Davie whispered in Charlie’s ear. Figaro snorted a laugh; Charlie hadn’t noticed him return.

“As I look upon the servants and humanitarians assembled here, I am inspired. The world is increasingly dark. There is horror that walks among us. From mass starvation in the streets of N’djaka to the gang violence that plagues even our streets here in New Chora, the world our children are set to inherit is vastly different than the one we conquered. There comes a point where we wonder, if left to our own devices, would there even be a world for the future to inherit at all? Sometimes it seems that we are stuck in midst of our own destruction, as if we are helplessly pushing against a relentless wave seeking to end all that we know. But the people gathered here challenge that. We have doctors fighting viruses, police fighting crime, lawyers fighting injustice. If you will indulge me, I would like to revert to fairy tales. Old folklore says that before there was a city here, there were fairies that lived in the woods. People would come to bargain for their favors, and our city by the river was built by those seeking their fortunes. We are a transient, hopeful city, one built on the dream that we can make things better. We seek better days, and we work to achieve them. That spirit survives time, and is inherent in every person on this stage. It is in people not on this stage, people unrecognized day to day but no less brilliant. Some say that the world is nihilist. That there is no end but the inevitable one. But if nothing matters, than what we do matters even more. If the only end is a bleak one, I am honored to present those who make life better.” Percival raised a glass. “To a bright future.”

“What the hell?” Figaro was drowned out by applause. On stage, Jeanette looked positively nauseous. Percival shook hands with the mayor, then was embraced by a severe looking man in a dark crimson suit.

“Is he drunk? That felt barely coherent.”

“How is he so consistently the worst?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said, “I kinda liked it up until the end.”

Percival and the crimson man descended from the stage, ducking out of a door. “Now that the attention isn't on him, he’s weaseling out,” Davie sneered.

Charlie just shook their head. “Hush, the mayor’s awarding medals.”

The mayor was working his way down the line, recognizing each person in turn. “For outstanding service in the field of medicine, Dr. Jeanette Pearson.” Davie erupted into cheers, accompanied by Charlie, while the rest of the room politely clapped. The mayor continued down the line.“For outstanding service in dramatic circumstances, Dappled Zenthella Sandoute.” Charlie and Davie clapped, accompanied by Davie. The room was quieter in its applause, Figaro noticed, upon hearing the witch’s name. He was sure Zenthella wasn’t surprised. Figaro’s ears twitched, hearing something at the edge of the applause. Was someone shooting fireworks? Figaro’s eyes widened as the noises grew closer, more distinct as the crowd stopped clapping.

The door was kicked down, and roughly two dozen men strolled in. All armed. Two quick pops of the gun had the guards by the door down and people screaming in the crowd.

The most flamboyantly dressed of the group strolled up to the front, straight to the mayor. The security guard didn’t even demand for him to stop, she just pulled her weapon and fired. The bullets did nothing. Tiny sigils flashed where the bullets hit the man’s chest, only to fall to the floor as useless pellets of metal. The man seized a microphone and turned to the crowd.

“Hello New Chora! My name is Killian, and we are the Manes! As evidenced by the lovely officer up here, bullets aren’t exactly going to stop us, so please don’t resist as we relieve you of your valuables.” Killian turned to address the mayor, flying back and off the stage as he caught one hell of a lightning bolt to the chest instead. Zenthella stood with her batons outstretched, dress flaring slightly from the feedback of her blast. As Killian stood up, the room erupted into chaos.

 

“Witch!” Killian couldn’t be heard over the pandemonium, but Zenthella heard his intention. She had two shields up immediately, one to catch a goon’s gunfire and one to catch the burst of flame Killian sent her way. Great. There were magi in this fight against her. But not all of them, she considered as she shielded another burst of bullets. But if they were all warded like Killian, they would all need to be defeated by her or another magi before they were vulnerable to the regular police. Focusing as two more Manes approached, Zenthella settled into her duel.

 

As soon as Figaro had heard the gunfire and the door had been kicked down, he had gotten Charlie and Davie under the table. “Stay here,” he ordered, “and call Barley.” Figaro glanced up, seeing the bullets bounce off of Killian. “Definitely call Barley. I’ll be back.” What Figaro didn’t say, but knew that Charlie knew, was that the witchling may be needed too. Figaro’s first priority was to serve Zenthella. But she seemed to be doing well against four opponents. Figaro scanned the room of screaming people. The guests were stampeding, trying to get to any available exits. The majority were trying to get out of the front door, but all that was doing was creating a bottleneck in the antechamber. That would have to be dealt with later. With a blast of percussive magic, he knocked one Mane into a pillar. One more blast left the thug with what was probably a nasty concussion and absolutely no will left to fight. There. Jeanette was half hiding behind a pillar, trying to find a safe path back to Davie. Figaro maneuvered through the swarm, dispatching another Mane along the way.

“Dr. Pearson? Your escort has arrived.”

Her grip sank into Figaro’s arm, the strength of a panicked mother. “I need to get to Davie.”

The familiar nodded grimly. “I’ll get you there.” Figaro turned back with Jeanette in tow, only to freeze. “Holy shit.”

Jeanette’s swearing put Figaro’s to shame. “What do you teach that child?” Standing on the table they were supposed to be hiding under was Charlie, wind whipping their shawl as they wielded their colichemarde in defense of their table. Before Figaro and Jeanette could do anything else though, a dense fog swept through the ballroom.

 

Charlie had been calling Barley before Figaro was even gone. They left a string of half-intelligible panic on his voicemail, followed by a flurry of much more understandable texts. Then they looked to Davie, who had ducked back under the table from where he had been observing the room.

“People are panicking,” Davie said.

“I’m not surprised,” Charlie said, fighting the urge to giggle. Why were they giggly? They were panicking. That much was clear. So why were they laughing?

“I’m scared,” Davie said, and it was the quiet way he said it that made a stone drop to Charlie’s stomach. “The Manes can’t be fought by us, they’re magically protected. It looks like they have to be fought with magic; Zen’s dueling four people at once. That head guy’s breathing fire.”

“It’ll be okay,” Charlie said, wondering where their panic was. It had been hot in their throat a minute ago. They had been giggly a minute ago. Now they were telling Davie that it would be okay with rock solid confidence. And they felt nothing but the gravity of their assertion. “We’ll beat them. We’re all going to be fine.” Taking a deep breath, Charlie crawled to the edge of the table, fiddling in their pockets for a marker before lifting the tablecloth. “Never leave home without a sharpie,” Charlie said weakly, waving the hot pink mini-marker before crawling out of safety. Charlie brushed everything that was left from dinner off the table, crawling up. Here was the fear. Now they were scared. Charlie uncapped their marker and began to draw. They wouldn’t use fire. Never fire. Just seeing Killian throw that fireball at Zenthella made them want to crawl into their own skin and stop breathing. To just escape. To get away and away until they weren’t even a person anymore. But they couldn’t. Davie needed Charlie. So they focused on that.

Wind. Charlie liked wind magics. So they created a wind tunnel. That turned some heads. As Manes turned to them, Charlie summoned their colichemarde. And they took the stances Helen and Cecily had drilled into them. And they defended their friend.

Warning slices kept Manes at bay, and sigils flared at the hilt of the colichemarde as Charlie sent waves of energy at ranged opponents. The first time Charlie heard a gun go off at them, they had to actively fight to keep their legs from giving out. But the wind rune did its job, and the bullet was blown straight up into the ceiling. They pivoted, eyeing how many opponents they had to deal with. Just as they were starting to get overwhelmed by the odds, a dense fog descended. Charlie looked back to where Zenthella had just been; she was completely obscured. And she hadn’t been priming any sort of obscuring spell.

 

Zenthella was barely keeping it together. Not because of her opponents, though Killian was annoying resilient to her magic, but because her witchling was in the middle of the fucking room making themselves into a massive target. The new hazy fog that had suddenly enveloped the room certainly wasn’t helping either. They seemed to have a solid shield; Zenthella couldn’t see the rune but she was willing to bet it was a wind tunnel to redirect any bullets. But the fact that people were shooting at her child… Zenthella moved her batons through a tight series of sigils before throwing her arms out, sending lightning out in a wheel around. The three thugs who weren’t Killian went down and stayed down. Killian went down too, but Zenthella knew he’d be back up sooner rather than later. Taking her window, Zenthella began to make her way to where Charlie was. Two figures intercepted her, and Zenthella breathed easy as she saw Figaro and Jeanette emerge from the mist.

“Fig. We have to get Charlie and Davie out of harm’s way.”

“We have to go through harm’s way to get to them though.”

Zenthella grimaced, eyes widening as she spun to hurl lightning at a Mane lurking behind a table, trying to sneak up on them. “People are more or less out of this room,” Zenthella said as she tried to peer through the mist. “Those who stayed aren’t budging. But I’ll bet the fleeing crowd is bottlenecked in the atrium. I’m going to deal with that. Get Davie and Charlie and go home with them and Jeanette. And do you happen to know where this fucking fog came from?”

“Language, and no.” Figaro took a breath. “So, get the kids and then come back for you?”

Zenthella shook her head. “Stay with them. Is Barley on his way?”

“He should be.”

“Then we’ll meet as we come from opposite sides of the front door.” Figaro hesitated, looking at Zenthella. “Go,” she insisted. “That’s an order.” So Figaro went.

“Stay close,” he said to Jeanette, more or less pulling her onto his shoulder.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” she said quietly. “Please help me protect my son.”

“You heard Zen, we’re getting out of here.” Figaro moved between tables, getting closer and closer to Charlie’s one-person warzone. The wind had picked up, and as they became visible Figaro and Jeanette could see Charlie was in total disarray. They had started upping the power of their counterattacks too; Figaro watched one blast of wind send a Mane straight to the floor, their head bouncing on the marble. Ouch.

“Davie,” Jeanette yelled, “get on the table!” A blonde head appeared under the tablecloth, looking wide eyed at his mother.

“Charlie, get down, you need to have Davie with you.” Figaro moved them closer as the witchling nodded. They traced their sword along the rune, adding a few marks to make the tunnel a mobile sigil. They took a step off the table, launching the tablecloth into the air as it was caught in the vortex. Davie scrambled out from his shelter, clinging to Charlie. The witchling and familiar began to make their way towards each other, each with their cargo.

“Where’s Zen,” Charlie said, glancing around. “And what’s up with this mist? I can barely see anything.”

“Zen went to get people out of the atrium, she figured the Manes probably left people to guard the exit and there would be a bottleneck.”

Charlie nodded, and at that moment the fog swirled out just as fast as it came. They turned, gasping as they saw all the Manes on the ground. They definitely hadn’t fought off that many. Neither had Figaro or Zenthella.

“Figaro…” Charlie’s eyes grew even wider as they saw Killian entering the atrium. Ignoring Figaro’s shout, Charlie broke from the group. They weren’t thinking. They just needed to help.

 

Zenthella had entered the atrium ready to navigate through a throng of panicked gala-goers and fight off the Manes left to guard the door. On the contrary, the atrium seemed to be deserted. There was no noise in the hall save for her own footsteps. As Zenthella tried to make sense of where the people could have gone, the fog lifted just as suddenly as it had appeared. Looking around, Zenthella was completely confused by the bodies of unconscious Manes lying on the floor. It just didn’t make sense. Zenthella turned, trying to get back to Charlie and Fig, only to take a burst of fire to the side. Hissing, she sank to the floor, turning to see Killian standing above her.

“Miss me?”

Zenthella didn’t reply, she just shot off a quick spray of attacks as she struggled to get back on her feet.

“Come on now.” Killian didn’t even block the assault, merely sidestepping. “You can do better.”

“Fuck you.” Zenthella summoned a shield, throwing off a volley of lightning at her opponent.

Killian frowned. “Harsh. Not exactly tasteful last words, but I suppose they’ll do.”

The pair dueled quickly and furiously, Zenthella with her batons and Killian with… nothing. He had no instrument. And yet that wasn’t close to the most confusing part of the night.

Killian lashed out with a whip of fire, breaking through Zenthella’s shield and sending her back to the floor. “You were so much better at this five minutes ago. Tired?”

Incredibly so. Ignoring the fact that she had just dueled several gang members-- in heels, no less-- something was wrong. Something about Killian’s magic was venomous; every brush of his power against hers seemed to corrode her energy. Killian’s magic was ravenous, and it was as if he was devouring Zenthella’s magic to fuel his own. Zenthella looked up at Killian, the heat stinging her eyes. “I did what I could.”

“Well good for--” Killian stopped, mouth gaping, as his suddenly fireless hands clawed against the spike that was protruding from his chest. The blade seemed to endlessly emerge, as elegant as a blade of grass as it cleaved through Killian’s insides. The Mane lurched forward and the blade dissipated, leaving nothing but a silently crying Charlie standing behind him. Charlie looked at Zenthella and Zenthella looked at them. Then Figaro was there, grabbing them all, all of them together, and the world compressed as they warped back home.


End file.
